The Fall of Phaeton
by Griff1007
Summary: New Vegas awaits the coming storm with bated breath. A confrontation is brewing at Hoover Dam between two ideologies and the enigmatic Mr. House. The Courier may very well hold the key to New Vegas' future. Until a wildcard arrives from the stars. Will they represent a Force Majeure or will they fall to the wasteland like so many before them?
1. Prologue

PROLOGUE: Wibbly Wobbly, Timey Whimey

"There are moments of existence when time and space are more profound, and the awareness of existence is immensely heightened."

~Charles Baudelaire

* * *

"Well, hello there." His brown eyes peered with curiosity through his tortoise shell glasses at the circular patterns prancing about on the monitor.

"What is it?" The young blonde beside him asked, her eyes sliding across the same display but coming away with no comprehension of what omen it portended.

"Well, it's a bit of a... I don't know." He murmured, flipping a switch seemingly at random and spinning about, "Let's go see!"

The woman smiled at his sudden excitement, thoroughly caught up in the infectious sense of excited wonder he displayed.

Prancing about the circular console that dominated the center of the room, he joyfully toggled switches, mashed buttons and pulled on levers with relish.

"Allons y!" He shouted with a final thrust of a brightly colored pump, the vessel vibrating in response and a characteristic rasping noise accompanying the tremor.

"I love this part!" The blonde proclaimed, grabbing hold of the console to steady herself.

A wooden blue box spun sedately in space, the curtain of nebulas casting purple shadows across its frame as a tiny white light atop it began to pulse in rhythm to its rasp. It shudders and sped off into the inky black, spinning ever faster before it plunging into a vortex of swirling color.

It materialized again, another diamond in the tapestry of night with a curious lensing effect causing the stars to seemingly coalesce and swirl in an invisible bubble above it.

A door popped open and a pair of heads stuck out, heedless of the unwelcoming vacuum as the twosome gazed at the anomaly.

"It's beautiful, sort of."

"Yeah... but what is it doing here?"

The man popped back inside, running up the ramp from the door back to the console, fiddling with more dials and levers and peering intently at a display.

"Doctor?"

"Yes, yes, yes... no, I mean no, no, no, no. Not good."

"Ahem, Doctor?"

"Yeah." He answered distractedly.

"What are those?" She pointed out and down, indicating a brace of bulky hammerhead shapes, their look clearly defining them to even an untrained eye as warships.

He strolled back down and lay on the floor, propping his head in his hands as he looked down and out over the edge of the blue box to examine his companion's source of curiosity.

"Well... they don't look all that friendly do they? Maybe we should say hello?" His eyebrows lifting in jest as he smiled goofily at his companion.

* * *

On board the nearest warship, a blip alerted its crew to the blue boxes appearance.

"Sir. A small object has just appeared on sensors next to the anomalous readings we've been tracking." The uniformed crewman informed the Captain, the older man's severe countenance darkening even further.

"Full scan. Tell me what it is."

"Aye sir, Adjutant, commence detailed scan of the new object." The crewman replied, focusing on his terminal.

"Scanning..." the feminine AI responded, her computational power being bent to the task of dissecting the data being fed to her from the scanners.

Suddenly, the blip disappeared, as did the data coming in from the various instruments.

"Scan incomplete. Object has disappeared."

"What?!" the crewman gasped, nervously looking over his shoulder at the pacing and irate captain.

"Warning, energy readings from the anomaly are fluctuating."

"Sir! The object is gone but something is happening to the 'wormhole'.

The captain stomped over, displeased at the further distraction. His taskforce was laying in wait for Raynor's Raiders to appear, Dominion intelligence having provided them with the coordinates for their rallying point. Another taskforce was heading into Umojan space to track down and capture or kill Sara Kerrigan and it was believed that the wily James Raynor would likely escape and appear here. Emperor Mengsk wanted that man almost as much as he wanted Kerrigan and made it clear to his Captains that failure would not be tolerated.

The scopes showed some incredible data from the anomaly. It looked like the event horizon of a black hole, the outer edges flexing and rippling while whatever lay within remained impervious to visual or sensor scans.

With a burst of radiant color, the 'wormhole' spat another object out into realspace, the swirling miasma of ether clinging to the disk as it arrived.

"What in the hell."

* * *

"Look at this Rose, we got another visitor."

Rose, began to worry at the tone the Doctor used, his normal exuberance subdued ever since he activated the TARDIS' invisibility.

"Hello... that doesn't look like it belongs here." The Doctor mused.

"It looks like a Dalek ship."

"No, I mean well yeah, it looks like them but it isn't. Wrong time and place."

"Uh oh, it doesn't look like your people are going to be very welcoming."

"My people? You mean humans?"

"Yeah, didn't I mention that? There are humans on those ships. They call themselves Terrans though. Haven't seen or heard from Earth in years. Don't really keep track of them too much, they aren't from our universe anyway."

"If they aren't from our universe, then how did they get here?"

"Oh we're not in our universe right now."

"I thought you said popping about parallel worlds was impossible."

"Nope, just really really hard. When the Timelords were around... when more Timelords were around, we'd put a stop to this sort of thing. But now... problem is... that this isn't a normal rift. I can't seem to get a grip on what though..."

"Yeah, weird how its all bubble like, all circular instead of wibbly line." Rose pointed out, chewing her lip in thought.

"Gah! I'm so thick!" He exclaimed, bopping himself in the head.

He leapt over the railing and scurried underneath, into the wires and guts while whipping out his ever present sonic screwdriver, it's warbling trill rising and falling as he worked. Rose peered down at him as he rushed from one spot to another, trying to decipher his muttering argument with himself.

With a shout that caused Rose to squeal in surprise, he jumped up and nearly braining himself on a low buttress. He ran back up to the console and jammed the screwdriver into it while twisting a dial.

"Rose Tyler, you are absolutely brilliant! Of course its not a bi-universal rift! Its a multi-universal bubble! It touching no less than... 37 different universes, probably a lot more. We need to shut this down before... oh no no no. Don't you do it!"

* * *

The silver craft resembled a convex disk with a raised blister on top and bottom, the very picture of a stereotypical 'flying saucer'. It had a dish like protrusion jutting from the bottom which re-oriented to face the investigating Terran warship.

The captain's omnipresent scowl was now directed out the viewport at the offending vessel. The attempt to communicate with them being met with a incomprehensible screed of alien speech which rose in intensity and volume. Even the adjutant could not make sense of the diatribe, but her next announcement left little to any of the bridge crew's imagination.

"Warning, energy spike detected. Alien vessel appears to be powering its weapon systems."

"All hands to battle stations! Brace for impact! All forward ATA batteries prepare to fire. Ready Yamato!" The captain barked, the crew scrambling into action to bring the vessel's mighty armament to bear.

A jagged green light speared from the dish beneath the silver saucer and splashed against the battlecruiser's thick armor, molten metal spraying out from the glowing scar it left along it's flank. A brief jet of atmosphere whistled out from the breach for a moment before the damage control teams could lock down the affected bulkheads. The hit was grievous but not crippling, the engines flaring to propel the vessel as it's laser cannon answered the assault with one its own. Waves of laser blasts bracketed the alien craft, striking a rippling conformal barrier of energy that noticeably faded under the fusillade.

The saucer attempted to evade the lasers while a crackling aura of green light around the weapon dish strengthened, indicating a second shot. It was then that the alien captain noticed the large aperture in the center of the human ship was glowing. He had time to puzzle over it for a handful of moments before a fiery blast of cataclysmic energy blasted from the opening and raced towards his ship. He turned and raised a 3 fingered hand in alarm just as his world erupted into white hot pain.

The Terran captain nodded in satisfaction as the Yamato cored the saucer and blasted it into tiny fragments, "Such is the fate of all who stand against the Terran Dominion." He didn't notice several of his crewmen rolling their eyes at the melodramatic pronouncement.

* * *

"No no! You didn't have to kill 'em!" The doctor shouted, "What is it with you humans and your guns?! Stupid apes!"

"Hey!" Rose responded, offended at the comparison, "To be fair, they did shoot first."

"Oh yeah, solve all the universe's problems by shooting holes in it. We've got to close this hole before more uninvited guests find themselves wandering where they don't belong."

"How do we do that?"

"I have no idea..."

* * *

A/N: I changed the foreward into a prologue, because I've been watching a lot of Dr. Who lately and am a big fan of both David Tennant and Billie Piper. I was wondering how the rift that was central to the cross over theme that brings the StarCraft and Fallout universe together might work. I'm no physicists, so I took a page from the Doctor's book to explain that the portal linking their two (and several other universes, though none but the Dr Who universe play a part) is a bubbly wubbly ball of time and space stuff. Chapter 19 is currently being written, more reviews, specifically critiques on my writing style would be appreciated!"


	2. Chapter 1: Mercy

_**Disclaimer:**_ _I do not own StarCraft or Fallout. I am using elements of both settings for entertainment purposes only._

 **Chapter One**

 **Mercy**

" _The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes."_

 _~ William Shakespeare, 1596-1598_

The late afternoon Mojave sun beat down mercilessly as the armored woman slung her rifle and knelt down to rummage through the debris at her feet. Even viewed from a significant distance, observing through the scope of his rifle, he could tell she was both well-armed and disgustingly filthy. He could not discern the color of her skin through the layers of dirt and grime that seem to cake every inch of her exposed skin like a patina. The Mojave wasteland had never lent itself toward nurturing an environment of cleanliness amongst any of the people that called it home. Describing someone in the context as being particularly dirty was quite a statement in and of itself and was usually the punchline of some ribald joke. The silent observer grimaced distastefully as he could almost smell the old blood and shit that he imagined rolling off of her in waves of nauseating stink. She wore Pre-war military grade combat armor which was, from what he could tell at that distance, in little better condition than the woman. It didn't seem to fit well and was painted with a riot of colors that he was certain was not standard issue. It was a little surprising to see a member of the pathetic Viper tribe wearing the somewhat rare old world armor, her Chinese assault rifle adding to the persona that she was not the average raider, especially given the condition and dress of most members of her failing tribe. Despite being so well equipped, the stalker felt confident in pitting his prowess against her and her ilk, even with several other raiders milling about the desiccated ruins of the old mining town of Bonnie Springs.

The marksman slowly panned the cross hairs around the ruins, attempting to build a tactical picture in his mind. He mentally catalogued their positions and movement. He made special note after catching the gleaming reflection from the rusted and spiked metal armor of a huge raider which he assumed was the female's second in command. The tall male Viper affected a balding head, ratty beard and carried a combat shotgun loosely in his hands. He guessed that the fellow had to have been roasting alive in that heavy suit of metal plate. Which partly explained why he sat dejectedly on his ass in the shadows of the shattered buildings as opposed to keeping watch with the others. The other four miscreants milled about the area while keeping only a cursory watch on their surroundings. Most smoked stale cigarettes or conversed amongst themselves to while away the hours as they waited, most likely for a chem delivery from the Khans.

Unlike his oblivious quarry, the man some referred to as Courier Six, kept constant vigil on his surroundings. He trusted in his keen peripheral perception even as he detailed the layout of the town. After several painstaking moments observing the area, he mentally shrugged as he set down his rifle, affectionately called "Ratslayer" against the rocks he hid behind. He wiped the stinging sweat from his brow before it could run down into his eyes and took a sip from his Vault 13 canteen, mentally and physically preparing himself for the violence that was keen to erupt momentarily. He rolled and stretched his stiffening shoulders while pulling a half dozen frag mines from his pack, checking each one as he laid them out. Satisfied with his inspection, he stacked them in his left hand and edged back away from the rocks quickly and quietly. He slid in serpent like movements around the brush that lay between his temporary bastion and the Vipers. He seeded the mines as he made a circle, creating a defensive kill zone in the area around his position to prevent them or any unexpected guests from getting the better of him. Though he had honed his skills as a long range marksman, he knew that there was a vulnerable period when the enemy closed to a distance that rendered any long range weapon less effective while the shooter switched weapons.

He nodded in thought as he surveyed the spread of his impromptu mine field, after which he moved back into position and checked his array of weapons. He picked up the assault rifle that he inherited, by virtue of discovery, from the Survivalist Randall Clark. He thought of him every time his hands touched the ancient hardware, the soldier fighting in a past age to defend the innocent. Randall had spent his post-war life watching over those less able than himself, his journey documented in self-deprecating journal entries the courier had found scattered in caves throughout Zion. It almost seemed to the courier that the rifle carried something of the spirit and nature of Randall Clark, as if an intangible feeling of approval flowed into him from the weapon when he used it in a cause much like the ancient warrior. The old survivalist's rifle was fully loaded and charged, a sense of eager anticipation racing through him as he checked over the weapon.

Second, he loaded a few rounds to top off one of his favored side-arms, a weathered 10mm pistol that he had carried since first becoming a courier. It was a parting gift from his father before he passed; the old rancher having carried it ever since his father had passed it to him. It had passed down through the generations of his family for centuries to the first of the line to carry it, a young security officer in one of those vaults. His hands caressed the worn pistol grip, the painstakingly engraved name, "Constance" barely visible after having been carried by innumerable hands through the years. His unknown number of 'great' grandmother's namesake had saved her descendants' lives too often and too well to let the name fade away. It was no coincidence that her name also meant, 'steadfast'. He was almost more relieved when Doc Mitchell handed him the pistol back in perfect condition than he was to recover to wake up to the man's tender ministrations after having been shot in the head and buried in a shallow grave.

He paused for a moment as he considered a .45 auto pistol, its snake-skin grip smooth beneath his fingers. It was Joshua Graham's weapon, gifted to the courier after aiding him in the battle against the White Legs tribe. 'A Light in the Darkness' it was called. He contemplated the change that came over Joshua after the brief but bloody war, the calm and fervent desire for absolution seeming to ease the troubled man's thoughts. As he left Zion, turning to wave farewell to him and the others that had gathered to wish him well, he remembered the look on Joshua's face. He was glad that the tortured man had finally found a measure of peace. Maybe someday he could set aside this weapon like the former Legate had.

Finally, he pulled his broad machete from its sheath on his thigh, careful to avoid flashing the bare metal against the late day sun and set it down next to his other weapons. There was no special history to this blade. It was merely a functional and well used machete that he had picked up after an embarrassing episode that involved him running around in the hills outside New Reno; half a dozen mole rats angrily nipping at his heels after his guns had run dry on ammo. He had been paying too much attention to the rodents attempting to chew off his ankles and too little on where he was going. The sensation of one's foot smacking pavement one moment and hitting nothing but air the next, and the subsequent pin-wheeling of his arms as he fell several yards off the overpass taught him the meaning of unpleasant surprise. From that day on, there were at least three things he never left home without, extra magazines for his firearms, his broad machete and a clean pair of underwear.

Preparations complete, he crouched as close to the rocks as he could as if embracing it like a lover. He carefully wrapped the sling of the scoped varmint rifle in his left hand and braced his left knee and forearm firmly against the rock. He closed his left eye and looked through the scope to re-acquire the dirty Viper leader in his sights. The flow of the sands of time slowed to a drift, its lazy meander in contrast to the thunder of his heartbeat roaring in his ears with fierce intent. The air escaping his lips was a forlorn wind as he took deep measured breaths, the rise and fall of his chest gently swaying the site alignment through his scope. He adjusted the windage to compensate for the light breeze that flowed from the west and ran soft fingers across his neck. He exhaled and paused, his chest arresting its rhythmic movement, while his finger squeezed the trigger with a deliberately languid purpose. The sudden recoil of the rifle punched him in the shoulder, its impact catching him by surprise, as it often did when he fired. He learned that anticipating the shot often caused him to flinch ever so slightly and pull his round a tiny bit off aim, a factor that became magnified the further away the target was.

He hurried to put his cross hairs back on target though he witnessed that there was no need. The woman's head had burst in a cloud of pink vapor, chunks of skull and brain matter raining in a small cascade as her body toppled over. Moving the scope over to the still seated metal clad lieutenant, he lined up another shot. Exhale… squeeze… bang. His second shot rang out, but was not as perfect as the first. This round ripped through the raider's face as he turned to regard his fallen leader, and instead of cleanly killing him, tore off the right half of his face. Even from hundreds of yards away, the shooter could hear the muffled and agonized screaming as the man fell prone clutching the bloody ruin of his head. Drug infused shouting drowned out his pitiful wails as the remainder of the Viper gang rushed towards his position. They had finally come to terms to the fact that they were under attack, SMGs and machetes held upright in their dirty fists, psycho enhanced rage lending speed to their reckless charge. With an almost contemptuous nonchalance, he set down the 'Ratslayer' and picked up the Survivalist rifle, eyeing down its broken front site to the nearest of the Vipers rushing at him. He aimed low at the filthy man's groin and fired a 3 round burst, the muzzle climb from the 12.7mm rounds walking the second and third shots into the man's chest and neck respectively. The powerful rounds punched softball sized holes in that Viper as the courier let another 3 round burst erupt at a second raider, 2 of the rounds finding their mark and annihilating his right shoulder spinning him screaming to the ground. He turned and shielded his eyes as an explosion kicked up a cloud of dirt and momentarily distracted him. As the cloud dissipated his vision was greeted by the site of several meaty pieces of raider raining down in a soft patter. The last Viper, a young woman clad in simple clothing and wielding a pool cue, slid to a skidding halt and turned her body into the dusty slide.

"Fuck this! I don't wanna die!" The Viper screamed as she ran with all haste away from the killing field. He put the fleeing woman's back in his sights but hesitated to send lead downrange. He blinked away the dust and shrugged, shouldering his rifle and stretching up to his full height. The courier pulled his 1st Recon beret off to run his hands through his chestnut brown hair then rubbed his rough beard thoughtfully. He watched her for a time, his hazel eyes glinting in the failing daylight and listening to her steadily diminishing cries. He shielded his eyes as he glanced towards the sun and checking his Pip-boy to note that he had a few hours of daylight left. He flipped his onboard radio transceiver to pick up the Radio New Vegas broadcast just in time to hear Mr. New Vegas himself.

"… _And now Nat King Cole reminding us what really matters with Love Me as Though There Were No Tomorrow. Because in New Vegas, hey, you never know."_

He hopped up to the top of the rock and sighted down at the thrashing raider who screamed and babbled as he clutched his ruined shoulder. He fired a single round into the man's chest ending the raider's cacophonous howling and finally enabling him to hear the song clearly.

The Courier hummed to the lyrical melody of Nat King Cole as he disarmed and retrieved the unexploded frag mines. He paused at the nearest Viper, or rather, the large collection of the former Viper's body parts which had spread out over several yards of Mojave real estate. He sifted through the mess, grunting lightly as he wiped off bits of gore from a coveted star bottle cap. He continued to relieve the other raiders of anything he found useful, including bits of the leader's combat armor that he could use to repair a similar suit he kept in a hidden cache near Goodsprings. Looking closely, he found that Viper leader wore a matching set of knuckle dusters, engraved with the words, "Love" and "Hate" respectively. Pocketing those as well, he finished looting the bodies, pausing only to end the torment of another Viper that had only been wounded. The last of them, the metal armored lieutenant with half his face missing, halted his pathetic wheezing cries to cast his gaze up as the courier's shadow blanketed him in deepening black. His voice came out wet with ropes of spittle and blood spraying from his devastated face in an undecipherable snorting whimper. The courier simply sighed as he drew 'Constance' and fired in one smooth motion, granting him the only mercy he was willing or able to bestow at the moment. The sound of the shot echoed in the old settlement, the lieutenant's head falling back against the dusty ground in a wet smack. A rattling breath escaped the raider's lips even as brain matter oozed out and spread in a macabre puddle to halo his devastated face.

The song ended and Courier Six jerked his head to the side, his eyes narrowing dangerously as a hastily muffled cry drew his attention to one of the ruined houses in the abandoned mining town. His gaze and his pistol traced the contours of the skeletal beams searching for the source. There… the last Viper, the skinny runaway, hiding ineffectually in an old bathtub, her trembling making the fire blackened skeleton of its other occupant dance and rattle its bones against the aged porcelain. He walked over slowly, his sidearm at the ready and peeked in at the huddled woman inside. Wait, not so much a woman as a girl. This child couldn't have been more than 18 or 19 years old, though her malnourished frame could have made her seem younger to his eyes. She softly cried in the tub and tried without success to draw her skinny limbs in tighter around herself, as if to fold into a ball small enough to escape notice. He grimaced at the smell of urine and a long unwashed body as he backed up. He stood by the tub and contemplated for a few moments, tapping his pistol against his thigh unconsciously in rhythm with the shaking bones.

An epiphany-like decision broke through the prejudices in his mind and compelled him to act contrary with his initial instinct. He kicked the side of the tub forcefully, "Get out of there now." His harsh tone brooking no disagreement or dissent against his demand, he repeated himself once more even louder. With no response forthcoming, he became more direct, striking her on the head with the barrel of his weapon just hard enough to break through her fear induced shock. She yelped and scrambled out of the tub, falling in heap over its side and lay panting at his feet. He knelt down and shoved the girl's shoulder against the tub with his left while keeping his weapon pointed at her. He locked gazes with the raider, regarding her intently and noting the pupils wide with shock and fear before removing his hand from her and backing a short distance away. The courier settled on his haunches and slid his weapon back in its holster.

The girl was a bit older than he had guessed, maybe early twenties. Pretty enough to make her the unwilling rutting stock for the other members of the tribe with unkempt dirty blonde hair falling just past her shoulders. She was surprisingly pale for a raider, the alabaster skin shining even through the layers of grime and the sunburn that scorched her shoulders and face.

He waited calmly, occasionally glancing around to maintain situational awareness as the girl's breathing began to even out somewhat and her shaking faded to a mere tremble. The raider had drawn her legs up close to her chest as she sat on the ground, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. She peeked meekly over her arms at the killer sitting quietly a few feet away and looking back at her without rancor. She swallowed and unfolded her arms from her legs, forcing some moisture in her mouth to speak, but only succeeding in squeaking dryly.

He almost chuckled at the sound issuing from the poor thing. Examining her closely, he noted that she hadn't quite deteriorated physically as much as most raiders had by this age, probably having been taken in by them not too long ago. Her scarred body wrote a testimony of her abuse, the language a patchwork of colorful bruises and half healed cuts criss-crossing her exposed flesh. Raider or not, life in the wasteland was hard and it took something from everyone who tried to eke out an existence in it, her tribe was no exception. Raiders tried to be harder than the land they lived in, saying 'Fuck it' to the wasteland and attempting to give in to every vice they could conceive before karma settled accounts with them. That she had been armed with a pool cue and wore an ill-fitting brahmin leather outfit clearly spoke to her low status in the tribe and how much rougher life would have been on one of her station. She would have only gotten the dregs of whatever the group managed to take, the meager scraps not doing much to keep meat on her bones. It is likely that she would have eventually fallen behind and become a victim of the very tribe she called family had the trend continued.

He rummaged through his pack and pulled out a somewhat beat up but well maintained 9mm pistol. She jumped slightly as he slapped the magazine back in after having checked the ammo. Taking it and a couple bottles of purified water, he tossed them unceremoniously at the dirt by her feet. He thought it over and added a carefully wrapped Brahmin steak to the pile. Lastly, the courier reached into the pouch at his hip and grabbed a handful of caps. He stood up and took her small hand not unkindly and closed them around the money.

"Head to Goodsprings, find Doc Mitchell or Sunny Smiles. Folks there will point them out to you. Tell 'em the Courier sent you. They'll get you set up with some work. You get a second chance." He waited for some kind of affirmation from the young woman, who seemed to shocked to do much of anything. She cringed back as he reached for her, his hand gentle as it pulled her chin to make her eyes meet his. He repeated his instructions again more slowly and this time received an almost imperceptible nod in return.

He had an unspoken arrangement with the folks at Goodsprings, given his status as a local celebrity after he had not only survived a gunshot to the head in their own cemetery but had also helped defend a local from a band of hungry geckos and rallied the town itself to stand against a marauding band of Powder Gangers. The former convicts were using the thinly veiled excuse that the town refused to give them their due by turning over a caravan man by the name of Ringo to take over. Trusting in his skills and hoping that fate would smile on him still after saving him from a headshot, he had run into the midst of the attacking band, drawing their fire while the citizens of that town put them down from a much safer position. The town now looked kindly to him, enough that he knew that the two people he mentioned would pitch in and help. He left a cache of supplies with Doc Mitchell, asking the kindly doctor to hold the supplies for a rainy day. He hadn't seen rain since coming to the Mojave, but he supposed sending this poor waif of a girl there for a fresh start would at least qualify metaphorically.

With that, he turned on his heel and walked away, not bothering to look back at the wide eyed young raider. Once he reached his ambush site, the courier gathered up his weapons and shouldered the strap of his pack. Looking up at the sky, he figured there was still a couple of hours of daylight left, enough time to reach Red Rock Canyon provided there were no further distractions, though admittedly, he was easily distracted. He started away in that direction, whistling to a new tune on the radio and trying to stay optimistic about his impending meeting with the Great Khans.

In what seemed like hours, though was probably closer to a few minutes, Jacky, the last member of this camp of Vipers, stood up and wiped the tears and snot from her face, her fist keeping a tight grip on the money the stranger had given her. After looking around and noting the quiet loneliness that pervaded the once lively camp, she opened her hand and counted through the stack. She counted 40 caps, enough to get her some food and water but not much else. She slowly picked herself up and grabbed the water, food and pistol. She was wary of death suddenly sweeping down on her and her movements were jerky and sporadic. When nothing sinister leapt from the shadows she began to walk in the direction the terrifying man spoke of, Goodsprings. She started out in an ungainly stutter that smoothed into a light jog then increased in speed to a sprint as if the hounds of hell itself nipped at her heels.

The courier chuckled as he watched her from the slopes of the hills near Bonnie Springs through his binoculars, her legs pumping intensely as she sped away towards the nearby town. Normally it was a few hours away, if taking the safer of the multiple paths that led to Goodsprings from there. At the pace she was running though if she didn't drop from exhaustion, she'd be there in less than an hour. Thankfully he had just come down the route she was taking and had cleared it of obstacles, so her path should be clear.

He didn't quite know what had come over him that made him decide to spare this one; he was usually rather cavalier about ending the lives of those who preyed upon others, be they Vipers, Jackals, Powder Gangers or whoever. But something about this particular raider touched him in a way none of the others had. Maybe some ethereal sense told him that there was still the potential in her to be a good person. Or maybe he was just getting soft. He was glad that Boone hadn't come with him on this particular journey, the laconic sniper tersely declaring his intention to stay away from Great Khan territory. He didn't press him on it, though 'Bitter Springs' leapt to mind as to a strongly compelling reason for Boone's reticence. The courier felt that he would've had a hard time explaining his reasoning to the sniper given that he wasn't sure of the reasoning himself. Boone would almost certainly have had some choice words for his choice, if the choice would have even been possible. That sniper was lethal with the long gun and he doubted that anyone would have survived to take mercy on.

He contemplated this newfound philosophy as he turned and headed out towards Red Rock Canyon, home to the infamous Great Khans. By all accounts and some personal experience, the Great Khans were individually tougher than nails and crafty as warriors. Despite that they were collectively but a shadow of their former glory following the massacre at Bitter Springs. Boone had told him of what had happened there, and though he tried not to judge Boone personally, it was the catalyst for the courier's decision to not support the NCR's bid for control of New Vegas. As it was, he saw no particular need to pay these broken people a visit at all, but was convinced of the need by Yes Man, as part of the former securitron's logic that various groups could and likely would play a pivotal role in the coming days as the confrontation between the NCR and Caesar's Legion drew ever closer to a head. He was somewhat reticent to enter the domain of the tribe whose members had been employed in his capture and attempted murder, but in this day and age, you had to roll with the realities of this life. He had encountered members of the same group in Boulder City, following the clues he discovered in his mission to track down his would-be killer. Speaking with them, he was surprised that they were actually quite reasonable to deal with, which contrasted with their fearsome reputation and their very personal and very recent history with him.

A sudden but distant boom echoed around the canyon walls. He dropped into a crouch, his rifle in his hands and his eyes scanning the area for an indication of what had made that unearthly noise. It reminded him uncomfortably of the time he had dodged the distinctly un-welcoming artillery fire surrounding Nellis when he first visited the Boomers. It was that memory which drew his eyes upward, scanning the skies for something similar to the arcing death that had come to greet him then. It wasn't until he looked upwards that the source became apparent. A streaming ball of flame was streaking across the sky, smaller bits like molten stars breaking off from the main mass as it rocketed through the sky. His eyes widened as he realized in shock that the meteor was heading in his general direction. Having no desire to end up on the business end of a giant fireball, he ran for the nearest cover he could find, a rocky cleft that he hoped would shield him from the incoming calamity from the clouds. Adrenalin surged through his limbs as he thrust himself forward on nervous legs, his vision tunneling into sharp focus at his objective. Reaching the cleft, he scrambled to wriggle himself inside, heedless of the scratches scoring along his hands. Looking up to track the progress of the fireball, he noted that it had dipped much lower in the sky, its angle seeming to change to one slightly less acute than its original course. He frowned at that just as some of the flame broke away and died just long enough for him to witness the black hull of what appeared to be some kind of flying apparatus. Any further examination was lost as it roared past him, its heat wash kicking up dirt and gravel and buffeting him with hurricane force winds. The impossibly loud crash was followed by an ear splitting shriek as the "airship" plowed into the ground and carved a long furrow leading almost straight into Bonnie Springs.

Curiosity getting the better of him, he maneuvered out of the cleft and dusted himself off. He looked back to the mining town keen to investigate the crash when he heard the unmistakable click clack of a charging handle being released. He raised his hands in chagrin and frowned, upset and embarrassed that he had gotten distracted and turned to face who had gotten the better of him. He grinned widely at the black leather vests of the 3 Khans pointing assault rifles uncomfortably at his face. They didn't look particularly pleased to see him, but it was promising to his plans to live through the day that they hadn't riddled him full of holes yet.

"Well, heya boys… just the fellas I was lookin for." The courier tried to affect a lackadaisical tone to belie his apprehension.

"Yeah?" One of the Khans replied, "And why exactly is that?"

"I'm here to talk to your chief. I'm Courier Six and I have a message for him. I would take it as a kindness if you were to point those boom sticks somewhere other than my face."

"Courier Six, eh?" Another Khan spoke up, "I heard o' you. Jessup mentioned you, said you talked them out of a bind with the NCR in Boulder City. Pretty impressive considering the fact you were supposed to be dead."

The first Khan that spoke listened to his comrade then turned his baleful gaze back to the courier, though some of the anger seemed to have been replaced with a small measure of respect.

"Alright then, you better be on your best behavior, outsider. We don't suffer fools here."

He gestured with his weapon, which thankfully was no longer pointing at him. The courier gave one last look over his shoulder at the still burning wreck in the distance. The other Khans followed his gaze but made no comment, pragmatic enough to deal with what was directly in front of them and not in whatever had made that massive scar. The courier resolved to investigate the crash after he had dealt with the Khans, his mind awhirl with theories as he made his way past his escorts deeper into the canyon. He sincerely hoped that the Boomers hadn't bit off more than they could chew by piloting that old wreck he had pulled out of Lake Mead for them. He didn't think so, they would surely need more time to fix the Lady, but who or what else could it have been? The Khans looked at the crash for a moment longer before following after the courier, already putting the enigma out of their minds.


	3. Chapter 2: Escape

**Chapter Two**

 **Escape**

" _We hope all danger may be overcome; but to conclude that no danger may ever arise would itself be extremely dangerous."_

 _Abraham Lincoln, 1838_

* * *

Sharon fervently held the cold metal bulkhead, her trembling muscles crying out in protest while she whispered half-remembered prayers to whatever deity would listen. The cabin became choked with smoke, the flashing emergency lights tinting the miasma sanguine. The acrid scent of hot metal and melting plastic assaulted her senses, the caustic and thick smoke making her eyes water and robbing her of precious oxygen, her head swimming in dizziness. The alarm klaxons rose and fell in volume and greedily hammered its way into the passenger's eardrums, drowning out almost every other sound. Only the horrendous screeching of tearing metal could overpower the cacophony, the noise accompanied by a periodic gut wrenching lurches. Her whole world spun crazily as she was nearly thrown against the wall by a sudden shift in the ship's inertia. Catching herself just in time, she redoubled her efforts to grip the bulkhead and spreading her legs for some measure of stability. She squeezed her eyes shut against the hot poisonous air and braced against the overwhelming forces pressing her into the wall like a vice. Strong arms enveloped her waist but brought scant comfort against the chaos reigning inside the cabin. The wall which had been a cool comfort just moments ago began to heat up uncomfortably against her body. The lurching had finally stopped but turned out to be merely a prelude for something far worse as her gut rose up into her throat by a massive drop followed by a constant and torturous vibration throughout the ship, the fearsome rattle so intense that she was sure she would get a concussion merely from having her brain vibrated against the inside of her skull.

"Crap! We've dropped out in a gravity well!" The Lt. Weyland shouted over the sound of the ship rattling itself apart, her PA enhanced voice barely breaking through the din. "We're in atmo! Going in hard!"

The few other survivors on the flight deck tried to peer beyond the cockpit to see what the pilot was talking about through the canopy. They were alarmed to witness that whatever the hell was happening, it was happening while the drop ship was apparently on fire, the front section wreathed in bright yellow flames. The angry plasma enveloped the forward section of the drop ship like a coruscating curtain of light casting its bright glow into the room and concealing all else beyond the reinforced glass. The waves of heat seeping in through the ship's shielding made breathing even more difficult, sweat pouring in rivers as biology vainly attempted to stymie the hungry heat from consuming them. Lt. Weyland, the drop ship's pilot, felt her face begin to blister against the deluge washing over her, the searing metal of her controls melding to her hands even through the gloves she wore. She gritted away the pain as she fought for every scrap of control she could coax from the beleaguered vessel.

"Mayday! Mayday! This is the drop ship _Icarus_ declaring an emergency. Repeat. Mayday! Mayday! This is drop ship _Icarus_ declaring an emergency!"

The ship lanced through the sky of the brown and grey planet, a fiery trail miles long tracing its path. Lt. Weyland nearly broke her arms attempting to coax the nose up, the dropship's alarms blaring in protest at the rapidly melting hull plating. She spotted a wide canyon and aimed the ship in between the rocky edifices. It roared as the flames finally died away, giving both pilot and passengers an unobstructed view of the earth closing in with nightmarish speed.

* * *

 _1 Hour earlier_

"Lieutenant Weyland, do you copy?" Captain Griff Johnson plugged his left ear with his finger to dampen the vibrating roar of the point defense guns, which had inexplicably begun firing just a moment ago. He had reached out in the darkness of his bunk and grasped the hand of his wife as he attempted to shake free from the fog of sleep and puzzle out what was happening. They noted that the digital readout on the wall mounted computer indicated that it was 0636 local as they untangled themselves from the sheets. His head slammed against the top of the bunk as he fumbled for the light switch next to the computer terminal. Sharon winced in sympathy. He waved off her concern as he hurriedly grabbed some clothing.

"It must be a drill or something, it's not like we're going to be…" Whatever else Sharon was about to say was interrupted by the Adjutant's synthesized voice cutting through the gun fire over the public address system.

"Warning. Dominion forces in sectors 3, 4 and 6. All personnel must evacuate."

They froze in the midst of getting dressed and stared at each other in shock, the words barely registering in their minds. They were shaken from their stupor as the base rumbled beneath them, the muffled explosion and the unnatural sound of tortured metal being peeled open sending a shockwave through the deck plating.

"That sounded like an insertion pod! The Dominion really is attacking!" Captain Johnson knew that their security lay mostly in the secrecy of the base and in the tenuous idea that the Dominion would not risk open war with the Umojan Protectorate by attacking a facility within their borders. Clearly, they had all underestimated Mengsk's zealous desire to capture or kill Sarah Kerrigan.

Though they hadn't been on EB-103 (the designation of this research facility) for very long, they had committed their section of the base to memory. They knew that 1 deck below them was an auxiliary shuttle bay that held one of the Raiders' special operations drop ships. As they expeditiously gathered what belongings they could, the distinct sound of Impaler fire began to echo through the bulkheads followed closely by the metallic pings of 8mm spikes impacting metal. Indistinct shouting competed with the weapon fire, though they couldn't tell if they were enemy or friendly forces. Taking a deep shaky breath, Captain Johnson steeled his nerves and tapped his fist against the door release, his C-7 Gauss pistol held tightly in a sweaty grip. The door lifted up with a whir of hydraulics and revealed a hallway lit by flickering emergency lighting and the flash from multiple C-14s chattering through the hallways. A trio of Umojan marines in white armor surged past from the left escorting a small group of huddling civilians, Impaler rounds impacting all around them as they attempted to drive through a small force of Dominion troops at the far end of the corridor to the right. He leaned out of the door, keeping most of his body behind the metal bulkhead while whipping his pistol up to point in the direction of the Dominion. He spotted three or four red armored marines laying down a fusillade of fire against their Umojan counterparts, the rounds crisscrossing the air between them like the flitting dance of fireflies. He added his fire to the cacophony, cringing back at the heavy body in bullet ridden CMC-300 armor crashing to the deck just in front of him. One of the Umojan marines just bought it, further depleting their chances. Desperation aiding his aim, he kept returning fire from the doorway, concentrating on purely adding mass to the steadily decreasing amount of fire coming from the defenders. His heart fell just as his trained ears caught the sound of a C-20A rifle at the far end of the hall. Glancing down for a moment at the dead Umojan near his redoubt, he looked up from the fallen marine just in time to see the Dominion marines turn to their right and attempt to meet a coming threat, only to fall to precise C-20A and C-14 fire. He cautiously leaned further out to get a better look and was greeted by the sight of Kerrigan herself rushing along the perpendicular hallway, stepping over the Dominion marines, followed closely by…

"Commander Raynor!" He shouted as the familiar black armored form surged along after Kerrigan, "Commander Raynor!" The leader of the Raider's didn't seem to hear him over the alarms and gunfire, because he didn't pause to even look in his direction. Griff tried the comm bead in his ear to raise the Commander, but got someone else instead.

"Captain Johnson? Weyland here."

"Weyland? I tried getting you on comm a minute ago, what's the status?"

"The status? The status is that we're under attack by a shitload of Dominion. I'm in the shuttle bay, the area is clear for now. I'm here with Petreko and part of her squad; we're holding down the fort and awaiting further orders."

Griff nodded, "I can't raise the Commander; this whole thing is one big cluster. Have you heard anything from him or Prince Valerian?"

"Thought I heard some squawks about getting to Raynor's ship, nothing much else aside from that."

"Roger that, my wife and I will head to your position and gather up whatever survivors we can along the way. Hold the bay until we get there. We'll just have to trust that the Commander can flip his own ass out of this fire."

"If anyone can, it'd be Raynor."

"Amen to that. Griff out."

He looked back into his room to see his wife dressed and ready, the pockets of her lab coat festooned with all manner of scientific… stuff; that he had no inkling as to the purpose of. She carried an old stub pistol, a family heirloom, in a holster at her side and had her personal case in hand. Aside from the lab coat, she wore the grey cargo pants he had packed for her over her objections and a white blouse. She quickly tied up her long platinum hair into a ponytail then regarded him with her piercing green eyes as she noticed him watching her. With her free hand, she tossed him his duffel, presumably stuffed with whatever she could grab in the short time they had. He smiled at her gratefully as he shouldered his pack and ran a hand over his dark hair flecked with grey as he checked over his own belongings. He was dressed in dark grey camouflage pattern cargo pants and a grey t-shirt, with LBE loaded up with spare ammo and his C2 gear. He slid his C-7 pistol into his chest holster and took her free hand in his. Hurrying from the room, they headed to the closest lift that would take them down to the shuttle bay.

Minutes later, they were riding the maintenance lift to the deck with the auxiliary shuttle bay hands still locked tightly together as if afraid that losing that physical contact would mean losing each other. The lift shuddered to a halt with a clank and the safety rails retracted into the floor. They moved out into the main access hallway without pause, balancing the need to watch for Dominion troops and their urgency to reach the dubious reassurance of the escape promised by the waiting drop ship.

Something akin to an itch behind his eyes raised the hairs on the back of his neck and without explanation or preamble; he pulled Sharon with him to the side of the corridor, backs pressed against the corner made by the wall and a support stanchion. A low rumble began to shake the deck beneath their feet and steadily rose in a crescendo, climaxing as an insertion pod tore through the ceiling. They huddled behind the beam to shield themselves from the fiery column which had erupted in the hallway at the pod's arrival. Griff peeked out from their cover to note that the Dominion pod had thundered in from the ceiling but instead of slamming to a stop on their deck, had continued to tear through the plating and created a gaping flaming hole. Broken beams echoed and clanged as they fell from the ceiling and bounced around the ragged hole consuming the majority of the corridor. Thankfully, there was still some room to maneuver past the obstacle, though a large obstruction of rubble had blocked off a side passage. He felt his wife pull herself up by gripping his harness and steadied herself on his shoulder. He glanced back to ensure she was alright then moved up and out himself, reaching back with his free hand and pulling her behind him as they continued down the hall, mindful of the wreckage. Their perseverance was soon rewarded as a blast door at the distant end opened to reveal a cavernous bay and short bridge onto the platform where the ' _Icarus'_ spec ops drop ship was patiently awaiting passengers. A small number of blue armored marines waved at them from their impromptu barricades of supply crates. Smiling widely, he felt Sharon squeeze his hand in relief just as the comm bead chirped in his ear.

"Any friendly forces this net, we are trapped behind debris and cannot reach the shuttle bay. Any forces this net, we are in corridor 5B trapped behind debris and cannot reach the shuttle bay, please assist."

The obviously nervous female voice was surprisingly clear over the comm despite the Dominion's assault playing havoc with the communications systems. He waved a marine over, whose visor lifted as she approached, a cloud of cigar smoke billowing out to halo her sweaty face. 'Did all marines smoke those damned cigars?' He thought briefly as he inspected the marine in front of him. Her demeanor was sharp and severe though attractive despite the scars lining her face, her pale skin and thick black hair matted to her head by the sweat gleaming on her brow. Her blue armor was decorated with kill markings and what looked like a fairly good drawing of a 'pin up' man on her right pauldron while the left had the double 'R' Raider symbol emblazoned on it.

"Sgt Katya Petreko." The marine announced, her somewhat harsh tone belying the delicacy of her features, nodding down at the captain as she snapped a quick salute. From the accent, he guessed that she was one of the former UED marines that had joined up with the Raiders after that force's failure to conquer the sector during the Brood War years back. He didn't know her personally, but recognized her as one of the NCOs under the command of one of his fellow company commanders.

"At ease Petreko, we have people trapped in an adjacent corridor. Give me a couple of your boys to see about getting through to them. We have anything that can clear through debris fairly quickly?"

"Breaching charges, 3 of them." She replied, unsnapping one of the aforementioned devices from her kit.

"We want to rescue them, not blow them away."

"Oh? We have plenty of time? Very good sir, would you like some tea as well?" She retorted, perfectly deadpan.

Despite the circumstance, Griff couldn't help but chuckle and he could all but hear his wife smirking behind him.

"Only if they come with those little sandwiches, Petreko."

"Sorry sir, we're all out of sandwiches." Her mouth twitched in a small smile as she replied.

"Ah well," he sighed, "guess the breaching charges will have to do then. Let's head out."

Moments later, Griff, Sharon, Petreko and another marine named PFC Nathan West stood on the other side of the debris pile hindering the exodus of their fellow survivors to the shuttle bay. There was a pair of engineers in SCVs attempting to clear the debris on their side led by an Umojan medic named Warrant Officer Sophia Bourgeois and a handful of Umojan civilians. They had them clear back as far as they could from the rubble while Petreko and West planted their breaching charges. Everyone paused as Bourgeois came back over the comm, the panic in her voice reaching extraordinary decibels that nearly suffocated the sudden chatter of C-14 gauss fire. The survivors were taking fire from a Dominion kill team, the unarmed civilians being systemically cut down with horrifying alacrity. Without a word, the marines swiftly stood back from their work and ushered the group back down the corridor and without hesitation, detonated the explosives. The shaped charges sent a shockwave of compressed air down the hallway knocking the rescuers back and for those without armor, popping their eardrums painfully. Not pausing for the dust and material to settle, the marines charged forward into the breach with their Impalers up and ready. More screams resounded through the net as an AGR-14 added its distinct melody to the macabre orchestra. Griff recklessly ran through the smoke and flame ignoring Sharon's surprised yelp and soon found himself standing between the 2 Raider marines, their weapons lowered in an almost defeatist posture. His unspoken question was answered by the scene before him, one of Tosh's spectres standing dispassionately over the bodies of the Dominion marines. Griff looked down sadly at the remains of several dead civilians littering the floor at his feet, most of them cut to pieces by the 8mm hypersonic spikes ripping through their unarmored bodies. The 2 engineers and medic, the former protected somewhat by the SCVs they were strapped in and the latter fully kitted in her C-405 light combat suit, were the only survivors of the ambush. He shook his head and grabbed the medic, maneuvering her past him through the corridor while the marines waved the SCV pilots and spectre through. Sharon speared him with a severe look that softened in sympathy as he made his way back and she noted the look on his face. The group of them shouldered their way through the damaged corridor and wasted no more time in running across the bridge and up the gang ramp into the _Icarus_. Griff, Sharon and the spectre continued up onto the flight deck while the marines and SCVs began to secure themselves in the cargo bay.

The scowling pilot, Lt. Weyland, the upper part of her face obscured by her headgear, turned in her seat as Griff trotted up onto the flight deck.

"It's about damn time, what'd you stop for tea?"

'What is it with everyone and tea around here?' Griff thought, "What's the status LT?"

"Board is green, we're ready to go. Most of the civilians have evac'd, Prince blondie is on the Hyperion and last I heard from Jim is that he and Kerrigan were arriving at the shuttle bay with the _Kaleb_. That was a few minutes ago, presumably they would have taken off by now."

Griff looked down into the cargo compartment, watching as the small force of marines and technicians strapped themselves in. He sighed that there were only a dozen or so people and weighed the risks against waiting for more personnel to arrive.

As if to stack the odds in favor of rapid egress, the entire base shook as a brace of drop pods landed in the shuttle bay, red armored marines and marauders spilling out in a flood. One of Tosh's spectres joined them on the flight deck and calmly strapped himself into place.

"Alright then, no need for us to stick around for the after party. Get us to the rendezvous."

"Strap yourselves in boys." The pilot grinned.

The next several minutes were rather harrowing as Weyland piloted the surprisingly agile spec ops drop ship through a bracket of ATA laser fire from the Dominion fleet arrayed against the base. She cleared the blockade with surprising ease by dipping below their firing solutions and engaged the drives to the preset nav coordinates of the rendezvous.

Griff had just inhaled, fully intent on expressing his relief in a profound sigh when his rumination was interrupted by Lt. Weyland.

"Ah fuck me, get me outta this mess!" The pilot cried out, as everyone not able to get secured by harnesses were thrown to the port side of the flight deck. She had jerked the stick hard to bank away from the dozens of Dominion battlecruisers pouring fire into the small Raider fleet already waiting at the rendezvous. Griff could only watch in horror as the friendly fleet began jumping away, quickly emptying space of any good options for the small crew of _Icarus_.

An appalling lurch was accompanied by a very disconcerting crash on their port side, alarms beginning to fill the cabin with their unwelcome clarion call and the onboard adjutant calmly informing them that they had taken a hit.

"No shit gearhead!" The pilot shouted as she wrestled with the controls to keep them out of the worst of the laser fire still streaming from the surrounding fleet.

"The warp drive is amber!" Sharon shouted over the cursing pilot while peering intently over her shoulder at the display, "It looks like it took some damage from that blast. If I disable the safeties, we can still use it though."

"Is that safe?" Griff asked his wife with a healthy dose of skepticism.

"Is disabling the 'safeties' safe?" Lt. Weyland mocked, her propensity for smart ass comments undeterred by impending death by explosion.

"It's not any more or less safe than being blasted out of space by the laser cannon!" Sharon retorted hotly, though if it were at him or the pilot, he couldn't say.

"Good point. Let's do it."

She quickly set to work as Weyland cursed and muttered, even switching to Mandarin when she ran out of English swear words.

"That's it! Do it now!" Sharon shouted in triumph.

Lt. Weyland engaged the warp drive, grimacing and shutting her eyes tightly. She missed the tiny distorted bubble that lay directly in her path.

All Griff could do was inhale and brace himself as the ship stretched out and became spatially distorted as if it were being toyed with by a petulant child. The sensation seemed to last forever, time slowing in synchronicity to space bending. As the _Icarus_ jolted forward it became immediately apparent that something was horribly wrong. The ship pitched and yawed sideways and began to scream with the very unpleasant sound of bending and tearing metal. A hollow boom shook the ship and threw him off his feet, his breath exploding from his lungs as pain lanced through his side near his kidneys. Thankfully he had avoided braining himself on one of the passenger benches, albeit barely.

The apparently unflappable spectre silently reached down, gripping his wrist and helping him to his feet. He nodded to the masked man gratefully and checked on his wife, who was focused on maintaining her grip on the bulkhead just behind the pilot's seat. He gave a moment's consideration to the other passengers in the lower cargo bay, hoping fervently that they were alright. He shifted his focus to the here and now, managing to wrap his arms around his wife's waist to help brace her further despite the terrific inertial forces pushing and pulling at them. The pilot shouted something over the PA, though he couldn't make out her words over the rumbling of the tortured drop ship as it was propelled by unforgiving physics to god only knew where. He looked up over his wife's shoulder as the flight deck was lit from a bright orange light, astonished to see that the entire front end was engulfed in flame as if someone were bathing them with a Perdition flame thrower. Now that he thought of it, the only explanation was that they had exited warp space in the atmosphere of a planet and were now burning up on entry. The pilot, though presumably still shouting something, curses most likely, was betrayed from her panic afflicted voice by the calm and calculating manner that her hands flew about the console, directing the beleaguered ship as best as she could. The ship seemed to level off and slow just before the flames died down enough to give everyone a glimpse of dark brown earth rapidly filling up their vision. And then, with an impact that surely killed them, their eyes beheld nothing at all as darkness overtook them.

* * *

A/N: It is my intention to publish a Chapter every Friday, but as I will be quite engaged with work related duties that day, I am posting this a day early. Please R&R.


	4. Chapter 3: Salvation

**Chapter Three**

 **Salvation**

" _There is never time in the future in which we will work out our salvation. The challenge is in the moment; the time is always now."_

 _James A. Baldwin_

His lungs burned with jealous need and his face, in its attempt to imitate it, could do naught but render his skin crimson with dismay. His vision blackened and narrowed in oxygen deprived blindness as the arm clamped around his throat like a vice. It was a steel collar wrapped around him and just as indomitable as the metal in convincing it to retire. He clawed at it ineffectually and resisted the sudden jerking movements as his assailant moved backwards, attempting to throw him off balance. In either desperate luck or a flash of brilliance, he shifted his weight to the left and slammed his right elbow as hard as he could in his attacker's solar plexus. The sudden loosening of his bondage spoke to his small victory and the effectiveness of his counter. The assassin wheezed as he stumbled back into the only permanent building in Red Rock Canyon, catching hold of the wall to steady himself with his right as he maintained the wherewithal to draw a machete with his left. Hefting the blade and glaring murderously at the courier who was nearly insensate as he drank in great mouthfuls of air, he pushed himself off the wall and brought the machete down to intersect with the crouching and helpless courier. Courier Six was many things, but with the exception of the time he was shot in the head and buried, helpless was not one of them. He felt more than saw the blade swinging down towards his neck, its gleaming edge naked with its lust to sever his head from his body. He was rather fond of his head right where it was, so he denied the Legion assassin his kill by rolling to his right and pulling his .45 Auto from its holster in his coat. The blade whistled and tousled his hair as it sailed past and deflected off the armor plating on his shoulder. He brought up the pistol and fired point blank into the assassin's midsection, blasting him back with the force of the powerful round and sending him flying back to fall against the wall of the house with a wet smack. He slid down the wall with furious hatred etched on his face, immortalized in death like a cold marble bust and left a splattered smear of life blood writ upon the stone as the final testimony to his ruin. The courier walked over to the other assassin, the man who had so effectively distracted him by jumping at him from the front and finished him off with a double tap. He took a moment to catch his breath, hands on his knees as his breath labored from a throat raw with pain.

Sufficiently recovered from his ordeal, he took a quick glance to ensure his pistol, named by Joshua Graham as "A Light Shining in Darkness" was unharmed and took an additional moment to replenish its magazine before holstering it. This particular piece of hardware had special meaning for the courier. He received it from the man once known as the Malpais Legate, after he aided the people of the Sorrows and Dead Horse tribes in fending off the aggressive White Legs. This ultimately stymied the efforts of Caesar who had incited the White Legs to earn their place by invading Zion, which as far as the courier was concerned, was an added bonus to helping a people maintain their lives and liberty. The weapon's legacy was further enhanced when he snuck it into the Tops casino and unleashed its righteous fury to end that murderous bastard Benny. The courier channeled his frustrations by going through the assassins' gear, collecting a growing pile of items he found useful; worn machetes, Legion denarii, purified water and assorted ammunition. Once he finished, he dragged each body away from the long house and laid them out of the way, figuring it was the courteous thing to do. He wiped the sweat forming on his brow despite the cooling night when his work was interrupted by a throaty chuckle. He looked up to see Regis leaning casually against the canyon wall watching him.

"You done playing with them yet?" Regis asked, gesturing to the dead frumentari.

"Meh, I was thinking about posing them into a compromising position, but it's getting too dark to see anything." The courier quipped.

"Too bad, that would have been a funny thing to see. Though I doubt Karl would agree with that."

"Karl is probably the one who sic'd them on me." The courier muttered.

"Probably." Regis agreed, "Have you talked to Jack and Diane yet?"

"Actually I have, think Jack may be sampling his wares a bit much, but they seem good enough folk. I managed to bring Jack around to my way of thinking and Diane is pretty much on board too."

"You aren't going to convince Papa to break with the Legion without all the others to weigh in on your behalf. Jack and Diane's word carries a lot of weight, but you'll need mine and Melissa's voice too."

"Yeah, yeah, I know it. I was actually about to ask you where I could find her when these guys showed up." He gestured at the dead Legion assassins. He had only been in Red Rock Canyon for a little over an hour, so for these assassins to have attacked him so soon after arriving, they had to have already been here as a support team for Karl. Ostensibly they acted on the Legion's ambassador's orders, working to cut the threads of any opposition to Caesar's plan for the Great Khans. Plans that the courier was sure the Great Khans would not appreciate if they were made aware.

The courier purposefully didn't clue Regis in to the ace in the hole he carried in his pack. After he had spoken at length with Regis, Papa Khan and Karl earlier that evening, he walked away with the sense that something about the story Karl told didn't quite add up. The promises Karl had made to the Khans just wasn't the way the Legion operated and simply put, he had a strong feeling that the emissary was lying to secure the Khan's allegiance. He was no great admirer of this tribe, being that they were only a modicum more tolerable than any other raider tribe out there, but he was a pretty big fan of freedom which put him at odds with the ideology of the Legion. After the dinner discussion with Papa Khan and the others he had slipped outside where Regis approached him about the difficulty he had in steering the Great Khans leader in any direction save the one that would see his tribe subjugated. He told the courier that if he could convince the 4 Khan's that held Papa's trust, his advisors so to speak, they might be able to sway the stubborn leader to be more open to what the courier had to say. Sneaking back into the longhouse on Regis's heels, he used one of the very few stealth boys he had left to shroud himself in its cloak of displaced light and surreptitiously entered Karl's room while the man was busily decrying everything the courier had said to Papa Khan earlier. He gritted his teeth at the obvious falsehoods being spun by the sibilant Legion spider and focused on his task. Once in Karl's room, it didn't take long to go through the man's belongings and find the damning piece of evidence he needed. The journal now rested comfortably in his cargo pocket, its contents betraying Karl's true opinion of the Great Khans. He hoped that this journal, in addition to swaying the opinions of the advisors and his own knowledge of the Legion's methodology, would convince Papa Khan that neither the Legion or the NCR were worthy of support and that the best thing he could do for his tribe, was to stay true to their historic legacy and strike out for richer opportunities elsewhere. It would keep him from having to deal with them himself once he established the independence of New Vegas and in a far more humane manner than those self-styled nations.

They spoke for a few minutes longer, Regis informing the courier that the last of the advisors, Melissa Lewis, was out at an encampment by Quarry Junction. He blanched when he heard that; word around the Mojave was that Quarry Junction was overrun with death claws. The courier had even seen the signs posted around the Sloan, warning people of the danger within and had wisely heeded their counsel.

'Well crap,' he thought, 'this job just got a whole lot more interesting.'

* * *

Dying and going to heaven wasn't supposed to hurt quite this much. Then again, he wasn't exactly a saint, so maybe he was actually in… that other place. He contested against the dried matter crusting his eyes shut to crack one of them open and immediately regretted it as the light stabbed painfully into his already pounding head. Every nerve in his body seemed alight with electric agony, a fact he would testify to with colorful screams and curses if he wasn't so damn tired. He opened his eye again, much more slowly this time to let his vision adjust to the light. He lay in a heap on a warm metal deck, his field of view dominated by a massive rent in the side of the room he was in. The dying sun shone directly in through that accidental window and shafted into his face, an accusatory finger jab straight into his brain. As his awareness grew, he became aware of other shapes around him, lit by the flicker of incidental fires along the hull of the drop ship and the smoke-filled sunlight streaming in through the innumerable holes all around the flight deck. He moved gingerly, every muscle protesting the act as he picked himself up off the deck and felt for the familiar shape of his wife. She lay beside him, the sudden surge of panic only subsiding somewhat at the realization of the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Still alive, thank god. He flipped her over carefully; mindful of any injuries she may have and inspected her as best as he could in the fading light. He didn't see any obvious trauma, her groans at his physical inspection giving him hope that she wasn't terribly injured. Satisfied for the moment that she was alright, he stood up fully, the sudden sense of vertigo causing him to reach out to grasp a broken stanchion beside him for a minute to wait for the sensation to pass. Griff looked around and saw the pilot slumped over the console, her harness having kept her from flying about as much as the rest of them. He carefully made his way over just as she began to stir, his gratitude at finding another survivor punctuated by the hand he rested on her shoulder.

"Lt. Weyland? You alright?" He asked gently, peering at her and ensuring that none of the armored glass from the shattered canopy was sticking out of the semi-conscious pilot.

The woman whined at his ministrations, raising her head and carefully lifting her flight helmet. "Aside from the console inconsiderately jumping up and smashing me in the brain pan, and this monster of a head ache, I seem to be mostly intact."

Lt. Weyland turned to regard Griff with bleary eyes, errant strands of her dark tresses falling free from the bun she usually kept her hair in. They framed a pale face marked with lines of sweat marking white lines down her dirt and grease coated face. Though bloodshot, her grey eyes maintained their cool intensity as they roamed over her body in self inspection.

"Great," Captain Johnson breathed a sigh of relief, "I'm going to check on the others, see if anyone else made it through that crash."

She mumbled something incoherent and nodded, an action she seemingly regretted instantly as she immediately grasped her head and moaned plaintively. He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze and turned around to come face to mask with the enigmatic spectre.

"Jesus Christ!" He shouted, the tingle of a sudden adrenal dump in his system rushing through his body. "You scared the piss out of me!"

The spectre merely cocked his head slightly to the side and shrugged. He turned away and bent to pick up his AGR-14 rifle and function checked it before moving quietly away and out through the rent in the hull. The captain heard the telltale electronic swoosh of the spectre's stealth system activating before his comm bead crackled to life.

"Moving to recon the area Captain." The sibilant whisper of the spectre sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. If death had a voice that's what it would sound like, an indifferent menace wrapped in silk.

Sharon began to stir, her soft moans interspersed with the ticking and groaning of the metal hull as it cooled. As he moved over to his prone wife, he heard an insistent banging coming from the cargo deck below them, the hope rising in his chest as he imagined more survivors attempting to free themselves from whatever situation faced them there. Hurriedly, he checked Sharon then helped her into a seating position, steadying her with his hands placed on either shoulder. She opened her eyes and he could see the palpable relief reflected there as she gazed up at him. She coughed fitfully, the smokey haze still omnipresent despite the gritty wind which had started whistling in through the flight deck. He noted that it was rapidly getting darker, the change in temperature due to the coming night causing a shift in the wind. A sudden and short lived burst of air howled through and hosed them with a stinging deluge of hot sand, both he and his wife turning away from the unexpected blast.

He coughed to clear the grit from his dry throat, "Baby, we need to get out and find some shelter. But I'm going to see if I can get to the cargo hold and see who else made it."

Sharon coughed some more and nodded before leaning back to rest her head against the wall. She leaned into his touch as he cupped her cheek in his hand before getting up and moving to the hatch at the rear of the flight deck. Touching it hesitantly, he found the metal of the door to be cool but unresponsive when he tapped the release. Gripping the manual release lever he pulled but found the device stubbornly refusing to budge. Bracing his armored foot against the wall, he re-attacked the lever with both hands and heaved mightily, his efforts rewarded as the lever suddenly broke free and spun counterclockwise. The door popped open a few inches giving him room to slide his hands into the opening and prying it open. The door opened just wide enough for him to be able to crawl through before grinding to a halt and refusing to move further despite his shoulder muscles straining in taut bundles. Captain Johnson saw that the metal of the door had warped slightly and that this was as far open as it was going to get without beating the hell out of it with a pneumatic hammer. He managed to wriggle himself through the tight opening and drew his weapon, trusting in its mounted lamp to show him the way. The metal stairway leading down into the cargo area was severely warped and twisted, looking more like a metal sculpture of a DNA strand than a stairway. Nevertheless, he carefully made his way down, his progress quickening when he again heard the insistent metallic boom echo from the cargo area.

The light from his lamp barely cut through the gloom, smoke swirling ahead of him as he narrowed his eyes against the sting and attempting to discern patterns in the dark shapes ahead of him. The metallic boom resounded through the chamber a final time to give way to a hydraulic whir as the main ramp lowered a few feet before hitting the ground outside, the awkward angle preventing the door from opening any further. Light spilled in from outside and helped illuminate the SCV one of the survivors had been using to force the ramp open. Marching up to it quickly, he peered into the pilot's compartment and saw one of the engineers they had rescued earlier peering back at him.

"Good to see you sir! Whew, that was a hell of a mess!"

"Call me Griff, what's the status?"

"Luca. Luca Giovanni, engineer. Dominic and me got this SCV working and started in on the door. Don't know if anyone else is even alive, was hard enough just getting this thing up and running with just my pen light."

The familiar clank of a power armored foot hitting deck heralded another arrival, the light streaming in helping guide survivors towards one another.

"Is it tea time already sir?"

Griff turned and grinned at the familiar voice of Sgt Petreko as she pounded into sight, visor up and still chewing on her cigar. The captain was convinced that one of the first tactical lessons imparted to marines in training was how to keep a cigar intact whilst being shoved out of a drop ship while being fired upon.

"Not quite Sgt, we need to assess our status first. Let's get out and…" his response was cut off by red emergency lights and alarms suddenly flashing to life around them, the adjutant cutting through the din with a voice punctuated by burst of static.

"Reactor overload im bzzzt nent, all personnel must bzzrrt cuate immediately."

"I am god damned sick of flashing red lights." He muttered, the affirming grunts from Luca and Sgt Petreko telling him he wasn't alone in that feeling.

Lt. Weyland's voice crackled on his ear piece, "Sure you just heard that, we need to grab what we can and get the hell out. The doctor and I are moving out through this hole now. I suggest you get clear as fast as you can."

Griff didn't have time to think of a plan any more elaborate than to suddenly begin to shout at whoever could hear him to grab whatever was at hand and get out. Paying no heed to what he was grabbing, he picked up a crate and a duffle bag then huffed it to the partially open ramp. He threw the items through the opening and turned to direct one of the marines past him, his armored bulk barely making it through the opening. Luca managed to get the SCV into the breach and used it to widen the opening a little bit, making it a bit easier for the other marines and the medic to make it through. The other engineer, Dominic, started up the spare SCV and picked up a supply crate then drove it straight through the ramp, followed by Luca in his own. The opening closing back down to a narrow slit only a couple of feet wide once the SCV let go. Johnson took another quick look and hurried out after the rest, the unmoving forms of 2 or 3 people lying on the deck weighing heavily on his conscience as he fled the metal coffin. The group managed to move towards some ruins and far enough away to only be blasted in the back with hot air as the drop ship exploded, the blue white flare of light casting brief shadows around them. The soft patter of raining debris surrounded them as the survivors kept going, coming to a halt in the middle of what looked like an abandoned town that wouldn't have been too out of place on a fringe world like Mar Sara.

Looking around, he took note of the bedraggled survivors, most with minor wounds but surprisingly intact despite the violence of their arrival. Willing his vision to pierce through the small crowd, he found what his heart sought with longing and surged into the waiting arms of his wife, breathing deep at the smell of her hair as he held her tightly. They reluctantly cut short their embrace but stayed close at each other's side as they both took stock. The pilot, Lt. Weyland nodded their way from where she rested against a rotted wall. The medic, warrant officer Bourgeois began to examine the survivors for wounds while the two engineers, Luca and Dominic, dismounted from their SCVs, their tired faces alight with relief at merely being alive. Sgt Petreko was inspecting what was left of her squad, the 2 marines facing her as she spoke to them. He didn't see the spectre and in truth he didn't expect to, trusting that the eccentric man was indeed out there keeping an eye on their surroundings. He pulled his wife in for another hug, resting his chin on top of her head as he let out the breath he seemed to have been holding since they escaped from the research facility.

"Well, here we are."

Where ever 'here' was, left much to be desired. Not wishing to tempt fate, he quickly added mentally that it could have been much worse; dropping onto a hatchery of a feral brood of zerg for example. He shook his head to forestall any more dismal visions of how much worse it could be and took a real look at their surroundings. The first thing he noted were the bodies lying around, looking as though there had been a fight here not that long ago. Though hard to tell past the absolute filth these people seemed to have rolled themselves in while alive, they did appear to be Terran. He made a mental note to investigate further after he had seen after his people. The town, though it barely deserved the name, had the look of a long abandoned settlement, the few buildings that still had all four walls being so decrepit that a harsh word in their general direction would probably bring them down.

Giving the survivors a few moments to orient themselves and catch a few breaths, he rallied them up and took stock of what they had. There were 10 of them, mostly unfettered by any significant injury despite the ordeal they had gone through. Thinking back to the last glance he had made in the cargo hold, Sgt Petreko's squad was much smaller now than when they started their sojourn. He spared a moment to comment on them, commending them for their courage and adding that they played an integral role in seeing them all safe. The marine sergeant bore a stony countenance as he spoke; the only indication of her mood was a slight tightening of her jaw as he recited their names. He then went around the group for SITREPs, discovering that though the marines were kitted out in their CMC-300 power armor and still held their C-14 Impaler gauss rifles, ammunition for their weapons was depressingly low.

The two engineers similarly had little good news to contribute, though they did manage to salvage the hard drive and a mobile terminal for the ' _Icarus'_ adjutant. Both of their SCVs were damaged, one beyond use. Thankfully, the parts from the one could be used to fully restore the other, so their engineering capability was intact though diminished. The problem lay in power generation; both of their onboard fusion reactors were only providing minimal power and reserves would be depleted with hard use. The medic spoke briefly about ambient radiation being a concern, her instruments picking up several sources around them that held unhealthy rad counts, though the area they were in was relatively radiation free. The pilot added nothing, merely shrugging and gesturing vaguely in the direction of the unrecognizable flaming wreck that was once her drop ship. The spectre, who had finally made an appearance, albeit by coming out of stealth in their midst and almost giving the lot of them heart attacks, reported that the immediate area was clear of contacts. He had looked over the bodies Griff had noticed and he surmised that they had been ambushed by a small force, probably a single assailant who had left one survivor and then left the area towards a series of canyons. Judging by the state of the gear and of the people themselves, he guessed that they were refugees of some sort or very poor bandits.

Griff listened carefully to everyone before speaking.

"Well, we don't know where we are or how or even if the indigenous population can help us. For now, we will assume that the environment is hostile and proceed from there. We are low on ammo, food and water. Fire up the adjutant and link her to the SCV and see if we can get a survey of this area. It doesn't look like much, but we need to establish some kind of base camp. We will need recon as well, but for now, set watches and try to get some rest. Come morning, we'll start figuring out a way to get off this rock and back to the Hyperion."

As the survivors began to move out to establish some kind of perimeter, the Mojave moon rose above the cliffs and bathed them in its silver light. It was peaceful for a change, a welcome respite for the weary travelers from the tribulations of the harrowing escape. Little did they know, it would end up being the last real peace they would know, because war… war never changes.


	5. Chapter 4: Discovery

_**A/N:**_ _Although I scheduled the updates to take place on Friday, this Friday is going to turn out to be a rather busy day for me, so I am posting this a day early. Enjoy and as always please leave a review._

 **Chapter Four**

 **Discovery**

" _Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore."_

 _~Andre Gide_

The blazing sun crested the mountains surrounding their camp as PFC Vasquez trudged the perimeter of the ruined town, keeping the desiccated buildings within eye sight as she made her way along her half of the patrol route. Sun baked earth crunched beneath her armored feet but was barely heeded over the whine of her suit's heat exchange turbines. CMC-300 power armor was never intended for stealth, so the marine saw no reason to stifle the tromping echoes of her heavy footfalls even in unfamiliar territory. For the tenth time, she cursed under her breath as she hefted the C-14 Gauss rifle; her training had ingrained the feel of the smaller weapon in her grip, but she still missed the comforting weight of her signature chain gun with a fierce longing. The Sergeant had been clear though, without a supply depot to manufacture more 8mm rounds, the ammo hungry monstrosity would have to slumber while she begrudgingly walked patrol with the lesser weapon. She felt as though she was being unfaithful to what some in the squad had jokingly called her husband, her infidelity leaving a void in her already beleaguered heart. The sense of wrongness was only enhanced by their presence on this completely alien world. She had faced Dominion troops, ravenous Zerg, even zealous Protoss in battlefields throughout the Koprulu sector with hardly any thought or concern to give her pause. It was what she was good at, and moreover, it was what she _enjoyed_. She scanned the area for the tenth time in as many minutes, the limited technology in her suit still giving her a good tactical analysis of the immediate area. Thus it was only with marginal surprise, and a fair bit of nervousness, that her tenth scan revealed several unknown contacts approaching from the west. She blinked at the release mechanism of her visor, the polarized glass lifting open with a hiss. The coppery tinge of hot desert air assaulted her delicate Latin features, small beads of sweat appearing on her swarthy skin almost immediately in response to its oppressive discomfort.

The marine scanned the area with her eyes in an attempt to locate the contacts showing up as yellow 'unknowns' on her HUD. Catching the movement at the edge of her range of sight, she activated her comm suite with a quick tap of her finger inside her massive metal gauntlet.

"Sergeant, this is Romeo 2, I have unknown bogeys approaching at bearing 269 mark 3." Despite the tension she felt at being approached at a fair clip by unknown contacts, her voice was cool and professional, years of training and experience kicking in as she braced and aimed her weapon at the juking flying forms approaching her position.

"Copy that Romeo 2, do you have visual?"

"Visual established, targets are some kind of flying bugs. Orange wings and blue black bodies, like big ass wasps."

"Could it be some kind of zerg?"

PFC Vasquez had fought zerg on seven separate engagements, from the Brood war years ago to the desolate refugee camps at Meinhoff, but she had never seen zerg that looked like these things.

"Don't think so, rather small for any flying zerg I've seen, don't look like muteys or scourge."

"Patch me in to your video feed."

Iara Vasquez blinked at her HUD and lowered her visor again, the cool recycled air blowing across her face bringing instant relief from both the smell and the heat of the wasteland. A blue icon at the top right of her tactical display told her that the sergeant had linked in with her suit and could see what she was seeing. The targets were close enough now to distinguish five targets, an odd buzzing in the air vibrating the aural sensors in her armor from their rapid wingbeats. Their tails were disconcerting for the very large spikes protruding from them. From the way the creatures were flexing them, undulating almost sexually, she got the feeling that those pinche cabrones weren't coming over to play nice.

"Mira, those things don't look too friendly."

"You are free to engage Vasquez, see if you can bring one back alive; the eggheads want to take a look at them."

"Bring one back alive," Iara muttered to herself, "those pendejos can kiss my Latina ass."

"Say again Vasquez?"

"Engaging targets now sergeant." She spoke up, her grimace growing deeper despite the usually enjoyable opportunity to meet the local wildlife and then killing them. Thanks to her suit, she didn't even need to brace against the recoil as her weapon chattered in her fist, the 3 round bursts from the gauss rifle barely moving in her mechanical grip. With methodical precision, she shifted targets and fired from the closest to the furthest. Chitin and ichor exploded into the air with high pitched shrieks as the rounds pulverized the first four creatures, sending their ruined corpses sliding on the canyon floor, the remnants of their bodies still twitching feebly. The last bug jerked and weaved crazily, confounding even the enhanced targeting of her suit as hypersonic spikes whistled around it. She backed up a step and cursed as her vision was filled with fluttering orange wings and tinny scrapes as disgusting blue insect legs scrambled against her hardskin. She felt the punch in her abdomen as the creature attempted to molest her with its stinger, the venom dripping appendage scraping against the nano-forged steel. Recovering from her shocked disgust, her armored fist rocketed into the insects head, blasting it back away from her and sending it sprawling to the ground. It twitched and kicked madly, its wings buzzing ineffectually as it lay on its back and kicked up dust from its frenzied movement. She stomped over to the beast and noted that she had collapsed its head, yellow green fluid jetting from the cracked carapace around one of its deflated compound eyes. Swallowing back the bile rising in her throat, she kicked it a couple of times until it's staccato drumbeat against the rocky ground slowed to a twitch and then grabbed it by its stinger and began to drag the hapless creature back towards base camp.

"All clear here now, Sergeant. Bringing one back now."

"Still alive?"

Iara glanced back at the still twitching form of the wasp like creature, "um, _alive-ish_." She replied hesitantly.

"Whatever. See you in 5 mikes."

* * *

 _Sometime earlier that morning_

The sunrise evoked in her both happiness and fear in equal measure. Happy to be alive and to have her husband close but also fear of what this day could bring, lost in this strange land. As she came fully to wakefulness, the grey fog of sleep burning away under the harsh dawn, she found that her husband had already awoken and was standing nearby, speaking to the spectre. She shivered in the chilly early morning air, the sun's warmth not yet dispelling the previous night's cold embrace. She slipped on her lab overcoat, thankful even for the scant protection from the cold it provided and moved stiffly to stand beside Griff.

He stopped his discussion with the spectre to smile warmly at his wife, placing a hand on the small of her back as he turned his attention back to the mysterious operative. With deliberate economy of movement, the spectre reached up to unclasp the mask and hood of his hostile environment suit pulling them free with a hiss of escaping purple gas. For the first time, the two of them got a glimpse of what lay beneath the shroud of enigma. They didn't know what to expect, glowing eyes, tentacles where a mouth should be, but in the end whatever expectations they had died an ignoble death to the mundane reality. He was a man, not some monster out of a fairy tale book, simply a man. He was fearsome perhaps in his own way, the shadows of guile hanging over him like a dark cloud of sinister intent. But to all appearances a tired and somewhat angry looking man in his prime, swarthy skin that glistened with the sheen of sweat from his bald head to the thick but evenly trimmed beard. His dark eyes glittered as he took in their response, nodding at their obvious and unspoken soliloquy concerning his appearance.

"Specialist Ashur Shalev." He said by way of introduction. "I fear we may be here for some time, you may as well have something to call me."

"Ah, well good to meet you Specialist Shalev. As I was saying, I think it would be prudent to split up into two groups, one to remain here and establish a base of operations while the other perform recon, perhaps get some help from any friendly locals."

"And to which would you have me?" The operative queried.

"Actually, I was hoping you would best answer that. I have no experience working with spectres. I don't quite know how to make use of your unique talents."

"I did hear that you like tea and little sandwiches, I can try to find some for you."

"I swear; one little comment and you guys just run it into the ground." The captain muttered. "Look Ashur, you could be immensely useful in either group. But I am honestly wondering if you should reconnoiter on your own. My group will be out attempting to seek help from the locals in a hopefully diplomatic capacity while you can go where a group can't. Get the read on the seedy underbelly as it were, if such a thing exists here."

"Trust me captain, every place has a seedy underbelly, even here."

The way he said that last part, Griff was certain that the spectre was referring to the survivor camp. He was somewhat taken aback by that, not even considering that any among the survivors would have any kind of sinister motive against the others. But Ashur was a reader, a telepath, and a damn strong one too and if he knew something…

"No, not like that, nothing overt. Is just an impression. Something… pensive." Ashur explained, answering his unspoken question.

"Are you reading me right now?"

"You were thinking the thoughts at me."

"Well, please don't, even if I'm… thinking at you."

The spectre raised an eyebrow at Griff's discomfort and simply nodded before placing his head gear back on, lifting his head up and spreading his arms outward in exultation, breathing deeply as the mask was filled with that strange purple gas.

"I go to walk alone, see what one alone can see."

Griff started to answer but found himself speaking to empty air as the spectre activated his 'Nex' system stealth field and slipped away without a whisper of sound. He paused, somewhat disconcerted by the encounter but quickly set it aside as he reveled in the proximity of his wife, her platinum hair flashing in the morning light.

"That purple gas, terrazine isn't it?"

His wife nodded, she had worked with Dr. Hanson in examining the substance after the Raiders had brought some back with them from a mission on the Protoss world of Bel'Shir.

"Yes, a potent psionic reagent. It's stabilized with Jorium and taken like a drug by the spectres. It supposedly augments their psionic abilities. It's highly addictive though, side effects ranging from hallucinations to psychotic episodes."

"I hope he brought enough then, it's pretty rare, doubt we'll find any of it here and the last thing I want to deal with is a spectre going through withdrawal."

He filed it away with the numerous other things that were promising to keep him awake at night and turned back to his wife.

"What have you decided Griff?" She asked, facing him with her expression turning serious now that her mind was focused on their immediate survival.

He considered her question, his mind flashing back to a discussion with the 2 engineers earlier that morning.

* * *

 _He had woken to a ringing metallic clang followed by a muffled Italian curse. It was accompanied by raucous laughter which cut off as a series of even more metallic clangs urged the transformation from humor to apologetic overtures. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he yawned exuberantly as he carefully extracted himself from his still sleeping wife and walked over to where Luca was enthusiastically throwing tools at his ducking partner, Dominic, the smaller Asian man holding up his hands in a placating gesture while attempting to hold his laughter._

 _"What's up guys?" Griff asked as he approached._

 _"This piece of junk right here," Luca scowled, gestured with a spanner to the SCV he was tinkering with, "it's shit, and the other one isn't much better."_

 _Dominic, taking the chance to leave his cover behind the other SCV, joined his fellow engineer and added, "Given enough time, we can cannibalize one to get this one working. We think we can link up the micro forge to what's left to process raw material for us… except that we don't have any raw material. This 'town' or whatever is mostly rotted out wood and bones."_

 _"Good news on that front though," Luca interjected, tapping his chin thoughtfully with the spanner, is that we did find a battery, seemingly a miniaturized fusion reactor, give us some juice to temporarily fire up the adjutant. We linked her with the SCV's geological scanners and found that there are some mineral deposits in the mountains and hills around us. Ain't much there though, probably why this town is in this sorry state, not enough ore."_

 _"Is it enough to get us started? We lack pretty much everything we need to last more than a few days. We'll need supplies and a command and control hub to really get ourselves out of the dirt." Griff intoned._

 _Luca gave it some thought, "It'll be a real trick, we need at least 400 tons of material, and the survey scan shows that there is not much more than that, probably less given that there is only so much of it we can get to."_

 _"Plus," Dominic added, "With just a little micro forge to process the ore for us; it's going to take a long while to get that much material."_

 _"How long are we…"_

 _"Days." They said simultaneously. "At least 6 or 7, maybe more."_

* * *

He recounted that discussion with Sharon, scratching idly at the beard that was beginning to shadow his face. He reiterated that they wouldn't last on the meager supplies that they had managed to salvage from the wreck and that his best plan so far was simply to split up into two groups. One to stay here and build up a base while the other tried to contact some help or at the very least, get some information about their environment. She could tell that their situation bordered on the desperate, and from the way his shoulders slumped ever so slightly, as if from a great weight, she knew that he knew it too. Worry lines creased his face and made him appear much older than he was.

"Do you remember how we met?" Sharon asked, apropos of nothing.

"Um, of course." Griff was caught off guard by the off handed question.

She was a scientist working under Dr. Ariel Hanson of the Agria colony, a small border world that supplied many of the neighboring planets with food and medicine. The Hyperion had answered their distress call after their world had come under attack by a splinter force of the main zerg push across Dominion space. He had led the mobile force protecting the convoys as they travelled the canyon road from the main settlement to the star port. Most of the colonists were farmers, having fled in droves to the main settlement ahead of the swarm, and most of them had little more than the clothes on their backs. He remembered the desperate pleas of the frightened people as the small Agrian militia helped them into the convoy trucks. A young person had fallen amidst a sudden surge of panic as word spread that a wave of zerg was coming in. Matt Horner confirmed it a moment later from the Hyperion, the comm crackling to life and letting the ground force know that flyers were inbound. Deploying his men around the vehicles, he spotted the fallen refugee being helped to his feet against the clamoring crowd by a scientist, her white coat in sharp contrast to the dirty overalls the majority of the people wore. It was a losing battle as the mass of humanity flexed and surged, and she was rapidly in danger of being trampled herself. Forcing his armored bulk through the throng like the prow of an ancient battleship cutting through the waves, he reached her side and gently picked both her and the other colonist up off the ground and into the nearest vehicle. She had taken one of the last seats and looked down at him just before the ramp closed, her angelic features actually making his heart ache. She gifted him with a small smile that he would have done anything to earn again as the ramp closed with a bang. It was at that moment that he became determined to meet the woman again. It took several days after the evacuation, but he had run into her at the cantina on board the Hyperion and the rest as they say, is history.

Sharon smiled at him just as she did back then and just as that first time left his heart skipping a beat, it still left that indelible mark on his soul.

"You remember how desperate it was, getting off of Agria. And then again, when we had to flee Meinhoff? My point is; we made it through. You protected us all. You held the line at Haven while the fleet was occupied trying to bring down the Purifier, you rescued Dominion soldiers on Char, you stood by Jim against the Queen of Blades herself; compared to all that, this is a vacation."

Her confidence in him helped bolster his own. He took her hands in his gratefully and raised them to his lips. He began to outline his plans with sweeping gestures, envisioning a base camp here in terra incognita; a sanctuary from which to gather information and perhaps eventually, rebuild or construct a ship capable of taking them back home.

* * *

 _Later that day_

The courier put on his game face as he got within sight of the crash, following the long blackened scar ripping through the landscape as if carved through by a giant. He knelt and began to creep forward, using the contours of the land and any scrub or rock to conceal his approach. There was no telling what something like the crash ahead of him could portend, but he couldn't shake the feeling of something imminent, like the faint smell of ozone and change in pressure before one of the infrequent lightning infused dust storms that howled across the Mojave. It was later in the day than he would have liked, leaving the Great Khan's hold hours later than he had planned as this approach put the sun in his face, a fact that he would repeat often when telling this story in the future to explain how he missed the giant metal man standing in front of him holding the biggest damn gun he had ever seen. Unfortunately for the courier, that gun was pointed directly at him.

For the second time in less than 24 hours, the courier slowly rose to his feet with his arms raised, "Uh, hi there!"

The monstrosity before him was a good 8 feet tall wreathed in sophisticated looking metal plates and apparatus. He thought that maybe it was like the power armor the Brotherhood of Steel wore, except it was nothing like the armor the Brotherhood wore. Where the wearer's head should be was hidden behind a golden dome-like visor painted with a fanged skull. The rest of the armor was painted a deep shade of blue and was festooned with cartoon-like caricatures and kill markings. He doubted that any weapon he carried would do more than annoy the metal giant and he sincerely hoped that whoever or whatever this thing was understood English. He knew that he would struggle to even lift the massive hand cannon the armored form levelled at him, the somewhat boxy firearm linked to his suit through metal armored cables snaking around his torso.

An uncomfortable silence (uncomfortable for the courier anyway) stretched out as the pair stared each other down. The courier had absolutely no clue what the giant was thinking, though in the deepening silence around them, he thought he could make out muted radio chatter coming from behind that polarized visor. In what had to have been an hour of sweating bullets, the visor hissed open to reveal the scowling face of a hard edged young man, his blocky face wreathed by cigar smoke that wafted out of the helmet as it opened. The cherry glow from it lit his face temporarily as the man chewed and shifted the cigar around his mouth.

"Identify yourself, civilian." The man drawled, in an accent the courier wasn't familiar with. It was slow and lazy, as if the very act of speaking was too much work for his mouth to enunciate the words fully. Speaking around the cigar certainly didn't help the courier's comprehension, the words tumbling around in his brain while he tried to figure out what he was supposed to say.

"Uh, my name is Maxson, Paul Maxson. Courier for the Mojave Express." Paul stated nervously, his arms trembling with fatigue as he continued to hold them above his head in as unthreatening a posture as he could.

Griff and Sharon looked at each other as the stranger's words came in over their comm beads, relayed to them by Pvt West.

Griff frowned in thought, "Did he just say Mojave?" his brows furrowed, "now why does that sound familiar?"

Paul heard more murmuring from the marine's radio as the man in question bobbed his head in affirmation to some communication he was receiving. He sincerely hoped that whatever the man was agreeing to was something along the lines of 'let the nice courier go' as opposed to 'shoot until dead, then shoot some more'.

"Mr. Maxson, Captain Johnson would like to speak with you. You will accompany me back to base camp." The tall man growled, making it exceedingly clear that his request was not optional. The trooper indicated the direction with his right, resting his weapon against his massive pauldron with his left. Paul moved past the giant in the specified direction, his fear subsiding to be replaced by a growing curiosity. Did these people have something to do with the crash? Were they in the crash? They weren't Brotherhood, he knew enough about the reclusive order to know that much. Although he could definitely say who they weren't, that didn't illuminate the shadow of enigma enough to tell him who they were. The heavy footfalls of the soldier behind him served only to remind him how alien these people were to the wasteland that he was familiar with. The journey was short and ended with him back to the same town he relieved of Vipers just the day before. The bodies had been moved and laid out in orderly rows behind one of the ruined buildings, the wind flapping the tarp that had been draped over them. There were three other metal clad giants, one of whom was dragging a cazadore by it stinger towards a pair of men who were busily arguing amongst themselves, their banter punctuated by the occasional flying wrench. All three bore armor that was painted the same shade of blue, though that is where their resemblance ended, each was festooned with personal touches and artwork that seemed to indicate the bearer's personality. The man behind him nudged him gently, and by gently meaning he nearly sprawled onto his face from the hammer force blow to his back, propelling him ungracefully toward a pair of unarmored people who were waiting expectantly.

Attempting to regain some measure of his dignity, he dusted himself off and stood straight to regard the pair in front of him. The man was on the younger side of middle aged, his dark hair cut short and neat. He wore some kind of camouflage pattern pants, heavy boots and a simple grey t-shirt. His right hand rested on a nasty looking pistol comfortably nestled in a holster on his chest while his left was casually laid on the shoulder of his companion. The woman beside him peered at him curiously with bright green eyes, her platinum hair shining in the early Mojave sun. She wore the kind of white coat that the Followers of the Apocalypse often did, its numerous pockets filled with electronic gadgets and medical devices.

After a tense moment, the dam seemed to break as the man seemingly came to a decision. He came forward, an easy smile on his face and his hand coming off his pistol and extending towards Paul. The courier took his hand and noted the firm and brief shake. 'Captain Johnson' gestured to one of a pair of benches that had been put together recently from the detritus in the ruins before taking a seat himself.

As the three of them sat down, the pair across from the courier, the man introduced himself, "I'm Captain Griff Johnson, Raynor's Raiders. This is my wife, Sharon Johnson of the same. The fellow you already had the pleasure of meeting is Private Nathan West."

Paul smiled and nodded at the introductions, the names and the captain's easy manner doing a great deal to ease his discomfort. He even twisted in his seat to regard the 'private' as he was introduced, nodding politely and receiving a clipped nod in return.

"Paul Maxson, though I suppose you knew that already from your fancy radio."

"That's right." Griff affirmed, "We are recent guests of your lovely, erm, home and could use some assistance. That's why I had Pvt West here bring you over. We don't mean any harm; we're just a little out of sorts from…" He gestured vaguely in the direction of a pile of smoldering metal ruins, what must be the remains of the flying fireball from last night.

"Yeah, I was guessing you folks must have come out of that contraption. I hadn't ever seen anything like that before. I suppose you aren't from around here?"

"You can say that, we had some mechanical difficulty with our FTL drive. It spat us out in orbit of your planet and we were lucky to survive the aftermath."

"The who did the what now?" The courier had never heard the term 'FTL' before and was having trouble with the concept of these people coming from outer space. Truth be told, he viewed it with a healthy dose of skepticism, although, looking around at the armored giants patrolling the camp and the strange gear that they had on them, the outlandish idea actually seemed to be the best explanation for their appearance.

"That's not important," Captain Johnson said, waving away the courier's confusion, "point is, we're stranded here and could use from help getting back home."

"Not sure what I could do to help you and yours, seems like you got all manner of fancy kit that I probably couldn't pronounce. Those big fellas with the armor plating stick out plain as day."

"True as that may or may not be, one thing we are lacking in is information. We need to know if there is some kind of government we could turn to for help, or if there are any nearby settlements."

"Anything close to government around here will probably be more interested in taking your kit than in helping you out. Folks around here are, for the most part, just trying to get by. Some in less of a 'take what you got over your cold dead body' sort of way than others. There's some Old World tech and salvage might serve ya, here and there. You got something to trade and most folk will be happy to do business with you. I find that a lot of people are more willing to open up to strangers once you prove that you aren't a danger to 'em and maybe willing to give 'em a hand."

"What kind of stuff do people take in trade?"

"Well, easiest way is to trade in caps…" Paul paused when he noted the blank expression on the faces of Griff and Sharon, so he reached in his pocket and pulled out a handful of caps to show them. They tensed slightly as he moved, only relaxing as they looked down at the assorted Nuka and Sunset bottle caps resting in his palm.

"Bottle caps? You use bottle caps as currency?"

"Yeah, they're easy to carry, more durable than the paper money that was used in the old world."

Griff held up his hand to forestall the courier's explanation, "you've said 'old world' a couple of times now, what do you mean by that?"

Getting over his momentary shock, reminding himself that these people were definitely not from around here, he began to tell them about the Great War and the nuclear devastation left in its wake. He told them briefly about the state of affairs since that fateful day, the destruction wrought by the bombs and the effects of the fallout which were still omnipresent to the survivors of that dark day. Though centuries had passed since the bombs fell, life was still very much defined by the war, humans tenaciously scratching our a meager existence amidst radiation, mutated animal and plant life, the horrors spilling forth from deep underground shelters known as Vaults. Despite it all, the greatest dangers were still other people, fighting over resources like the rare and valued pure water, over land, over just about everything and anything that humans had always fought over. Because, he added with a shrug, the world may change but war, war never changes.

The expressions on the 'visitor's' faces ranged from dismay to outright shock while he told his tale. Griff's countenance was especially grave once the courier finished his summary. He could almost see the wheels turning in the officer's mind, shocked disbelief turning to sympathetic melancholy to clear minded focus.

"Pure water valuable enough to act as a trade medium?" Griff asked his tone somewhat clipped and dry.

"Well, yeah, not much of it to be found round here. Goodsprings is fed by an underground freshwater spring, just enough to take care of the settlement. Most other places aren't so lucky. You got clean water or food, you got yourself tradable commodity."

"I have a proposal for you then, Mr. Maxson. You will act as a guide for myself and a few others as we reconnoiter the area. Help us learn the lay of the land, put us in touch with those willing to trade, point out those that aren't. In return we will provide you with as much purified water as you can carry."

"Might want to reconsider those terms, I was gifted by my sweet ma with quite a strong back; I can carry a good bit."

Griff smiled, "Well, provided we find a source, we have the tech to purify just about any amount of water we need. Plus, given enough resources, we would be willing to kit you out with some of our tech. Lowkey stuff, no power armor or such."

Maxson's eyebrows went up at the offer, 'pure water and technology?' He'd have to watch himself around the Brotherhood, but otherwise he imagined that even with some of their simpler gadgets, he could really do more to make the lives of everyone better and improve the quality of his own life considerably at the same time.

"You got yourself a deal, Captain!"

"You can call me Griff." He smiled as they shook hands again.

"Paul." The courier replied, ideas blooming to full life in his head at how he was going to get these folks invested in the people of the Mojave. To steer them into lending a hand with their fancy tech while getting what they needed at the same time. Win, win.


	6. Chapter 5: Genesis

**Chapter Five**

 **Genesis**

" _Give me a fruitful error any time, full of seeds, bursting with its own corrections. You can keep your sterile truth for yourself."_

 _~Vilfredo Pareto_

"How're ya holdin up?" His voice was kindly, filled with that grandfatherly empathy and wisdom that lulled you into a warm and soft place you oft dreamt of in child-like imaginings. But as an adult, one could scarcely perceive it in the harsh light of day. The soothing tones of his inquiry were accompanied by the sleepy whir of a slow ceiling fan, its revolutions stirring the air just enough to imbue a sense of comfort in the house. Its character imbued with the aura for the man who lived and worked within. It brought a surcease for the softly groaning man stretched out on the gurney.

"Pass me the 10 blade." He didn't wait for a response or even look up from his work as she passed the requested surgical tool to his waiting hand. His gentle way still surprised the former raider; that he would so readily take in the poor waif of a girl who showed up at his doorstep with nothing more than a casual mention from some lethal stranger who had decided she was worth a second chance.

She had arrived in Goodsprings a few days earlier, dust and sweat marking streaks on her face as she ran panting into the quiet and sleepy town. A dog and her master, a woman clad in leather armor had spotted her first, helping her to sit down on one of the chairs in front of the Prospector Saloon. She was kind too, and as fate would have it, one of the people the courier had told her to look for, Sunny Smiles. The ex-Viper had quickly summarized her story, leaving out most of the sordid details of her former life and had immediately found welcome once she mentioned that the courier had sent her. The man that had appeared like a specter of death to her former tribe was apparently well regarded here, if the reactions of the town folk were anything to go by. Sunny took her to Doc Mitchell once the immediate effects of her over-exertion had abated. He took her in without question, setting another place at the table for a late dinner; calmly and quietly watching as she devoured the Brahmin steak he set before her. That evening, she lay on the couch he had set up for her, deep in the arms of Morpheus but troubled by the phantoms that haunted her sleep and afflicted her dreams.

In the days following, Doc Mitchell had begun her education. She had no schooling to speak of, barely knew how to read and write more than the simplest of phrases, but as the Vigor-tester seemed to corroborate, seemed to possess a sharp and intuitive mind. He taught her basic human anatomy and several other topics that reflected his area expertise as the town's doctor. He and Sunny had cracked open a storage case that the courier had left behind, reasoning that he wouldn't mind if they used its contents to get her started. She was overwhelmed with the generosity, wondering when the other shoe was going to drop or if she would suddenly awaken to discover it had all been a dream. She expected to wake and find herself back at Bonnie Springs with Greg, the bearded number two, clumsily pawing at her in alcoholic fueled lust. She shuddered at the memories as she looked down at the clothing she now wore, a well-crafted set of reinforced leather armor. The 9mm pistol had been replaced by a beautiful .357 magnum revolver. The new weapon's finish was matte black decorated with ornate gold etching and a polished ivory handle. The symbol of "clubs" was etched on the handle and the word "Lucky" was written on the silver plate on the ejector tube. It was far and away the best crafted weapon she had ever imagined existed, let alone seen or touched. Even the prize weapons used by her former compatriots paled in comparison to this treasure. She carried it nervously, convinced that at any moment someone would point out angrily that the gun wasn't hers and would take it from her. Sunny had even set up some sarsaparilla bottles and helped her practice shooting one afternoon, firing the weapon adding somewhat to the burgeoning idea that the weapon was actually hers now. In just days, she had gone from an underfed and oft abused raider to a clean and well equipped young woman learning the doctor trade from a kindly gentleman who had not once tried to take it out on her in trade.

An insistent grunt turned her attention back to their patient, a town resident who had gotten mauled by some geckos trying to draw water from one of the springs. Sunny had brought him in after she and Cheyenne had driven off the pack of hungry lizards, blood seeping through the hasty bandages around his left arm and left leg. From what Doc Mitchell had taught her, she knew that he had suffered from multiple lacerations and blood loss. They had elevated both of his affected limbs and applied med-X to numb the pain. The doctor was now making ancillary incisions to locate the cause of some venous bleeding in order to clamp them before applying stimpacks to seal the wounds. She handed him the implements he asked for as she prepared a blood pack to replace what he had lost.

A short time later, they sat on the front porch of his house sharing a Nuka Cola while the man rested from his ordeal.

"You never did answer my question." Doc Mitchell said, breaking the amiable silence.

"What?" Jacky asked, lost in her own thoughts.

"Asked you how you were holding up. Been a few days since you got here, reckon you might be able to open up a bit more about who you are and what brought you here."

Panic threatened to shut her down like it did years ago when the Vipers first took her in, but a few steady breaths steadied her nerves. She looked over and saw only honest concern in the old man's eyes.

"My name's not really Jacky, just what folks call me. My papa liked the name Jacqueline for some reason, said it just sounded right with our last name Summers. But I think he just wanted my name to be like his, Jack."

"Where're folks now?"

"They're long gone."

"Figure we all lost something at one time or another. Important thing is to not lose yourself."

He sensed that that was all she was going to say on the topic, so he let it go, standing up with a groan and turning to head back inside. He paused and rested his hand on her shoulder comfortingly, keeping it there for a moment even after she started at the touch. His warm hand squeezed once then disappeared with the rest of him back into the house. Her mind went back to the courier, wondering where he was and what she would do if she ever saw him again. By the law of the wasteland, she'd be right to put a bullet in him, but for some reason felt as though that wasn't the way at all. If anything, he had saved her from a miserably slow living death. She was thinking that even as she ran from him that first time, a part of her begged for the sweet release that ending her life would bring. To feel a sharp ripping pain and then nothing at all; putting all the pain and degradation behind her at last. Tears began to fall in a cascade from her tired eyes as she suddenly and overwhelmingly missed her mom and pa. Her quiet sobs swallowed up by the deepening Mojave night.

* * *

" _Whoops, better put on my newsman fedora here. Got scattered reports of hulking individuals moving around the I-15 near Primm and Goodsprings, no one has been able to identify the sightings but say that they seem to be taking the wrecks along the highway. Promotional consideration for this news program has been paid for by the Ultra-Luxe. The Ultra-Luxe: live life in the lap of luxury."_

155.00

This had to be the worst damn job he had ever had. After his first trip down the shattered highway he had at least been able to kill these giant ant monsters that had laughingly tried to pierce his hardskin with their mandibles. He saved ammo by goading them in close and smashing them with his boots and fists, the servo assisted strength from his armor easily splitting open chitin and splashing their warm ichor over his legs as they messily died. He grunted in self-pity as he bent down to grip the rusted bumper of yet another burnt out hulk of a car, hefting it easily and began to drag it back to base camp and those sorry ass engineers. They promised that with enough salvage, they could construct a command center. Though not as cozy as a barracks, it would at least have food dispensers and showers. He could take the first decent crap he'd had in days, eat processed food and shower off days' worth of sweat before crashing into a quiet corner for some rack time. He chuckled ruefully at the thought of actually looking forward to the gelatinous mass that came from a food dispenser. They only vaguely resembled the meals they were supposed to emulate and tasted only slightly better than wet cardboard, but anything would beat the nauseating pulpy mess of cooked ant meat. Plus, that damn medic would have to inject them with anti-radiation meds after every meal. That he was the one volun-told to hoof it back and forth dragging anything and everything with a quantity of metal in it was just icing on the cake. At least Vasquez got to go on patrol and actually hunt for something to kill. But he was the lowest on the totem pole, private god's damned Nathan fucking West, reporting for duty. The only bright spot in this dismal place, and it was a stretch, was the radio signals they picked up on their armor communications suite. He was listening to someone called, 'Mr. New Vegas' and chuckling as he gave news reports that sounded suspiciously familiar.

"West, this is Ramirez." His comm bead chirped, temporarily cutting off the radio broadcast.

"Yeah?"

"Once you get that one back to camp, head over to my grid, got a big rig I could use a hand with."

"Copy that, West out."

Corporal Ramirez was alright, saved his ass a few times on Char and was a good drinking buddy after the fighting was done. The fact that the corporal was out here dragging wrecks back to camp too did help temper West's ill mood with having to do the shit work. He trucked back towards base camp, trying to ignore the high pitched squeal of the old car's fender scraping along the occasional road guard or the stifling heat turning the inside of his suit into a swampy morass of body stink. The work combined with the desert heat was overwhelming his failing environmental controls. A condition the engineers said they couldn't fix until they got an engineering bay up and running. Too bad for him, that was pretty far down the list of buildings they were putting up. He swore some more as the car got hung up on an old sign. He yanked and wrenched the car free but lost a good third of the car once it finally tore free from the obstruction. West resisted the urge to kick the crap out of the piece of wreck that remained and instead resumed his drudgery. Thirty minutes of sweat infused swearing later, he deposited the wreck alongside the 30 other pieces of scrap the team had collected. As he stood and stretched, his mind wandered back to the bar on the Hyperion and he realized that more than anything, his foul mood just buried the fact that he sorely missed fighting bad guys alongside his friends. He had joined up with the Raiders when Raynor had rolled into town and smashed the Dominion depot there and hadn't looked back one time since. He hoped that the captain had a plan to get them home.

* * *

160.00

The fusion cutter on the SCV flashed brightly even through the polarized screen of his canopy as Luca worked cutting the wrecks the marines were collecting into chunks that the _Icarus'_ micro-forge could refine into workable minerals. Meanwhile his partner, Dominic, was elbow deep in dust caked wiring they had salvaged from the wrecks, trying to jury rig a power converter to get the adjutant fully operational. The fusion cutter sputtered and died out as he leaned back away from the SCV controls and lit up another smoke. Dominic had found the pack in one of the cars and had tossed it to him, a gesture that had gone a long way toward mollifying the volatile Italian. They were absolutely horrible though, almost more dust than tobacco, the sealed packet having long eroded to the point of letting the damaging UV from the blazing sun do its work on the smokes inside. Still, it was better than nothing at all, he thought as smoke billowed inside the cabin. Dominic would be sure to bitch at him for filling the one working SCV with cigarette smoke but at the moment, Luca couldn't have cared less. His thoughts turned to the group that left a couple of days ago with that local that had stumbled onto their camp. The captain, his wife and the medic had gone off with the so called, "courier" to scout out the area and figure out a plan for getting off that rock that didn't involve them hand crafting a new ship out of rusted out pieces of junk. They hadn't been gone a day before they radio'd back to have the marines begin to drag those wrecks back for their metal. It was going better than he thought, he had to admit. The wrecks they brought back were actually well preserved, probably due to the dry environment and were mostly made out of a low grade steel. The nano-forge could easily work with that and produce the minerals they needed to construct a command center in days instead of weeks. But not if he just sat here puffing away on this miserable excuse for a smoke. Sighing heavily, the fusion cutter flashed back into life as he went back to his work.

* * *

Corporal Marco Ramirez stood on a low hill overlooking a small compound. It was surrounded by heavy metal fencing and had several towers made with solid beams and corrugated steel around its perimeter. He popped his visor and scanned the area with his eyes, noting movement in several of the towers. Private West was on his way to his position, ostensibly to help him carry one of the rigs back on the highway, but now, maybe not. He had been curious about what some under dressed fellows were doing skulking around the base of the hill and having skirt their clumsy perimeter check and climbed up this hill, saw the place that had the gears in his head turning. Perhaps they could negotiate with the residents to barter for some of those steel beams that their entire compound seemed to have in abundance. He glanced down at his HUD and noted that the green triangle indicating West's position was moments from reaching him. He cocked his head to the side curiously, as he thought he had heard something that sounded like frozen peas being flicked at tin. It happened several more times accompanied by muzzle flashes originating from several of the towers before he realized that the residents were actually shooting at him. More annoyed than anything, he reported back to the LT at base camp. The petite pilot wasn't hard on the eyes at all, but lacked somewhat in commanding grunts in the field. Her response was somewhat dismissive and the sergeant piping in didn't add to his confidence much. Petreko's modus operandi of kill 'em all and let god sort 'em out coming to the fore with predictable aplomb.

He waited a minute until West joined him at the top of the hill, his voice flush with inappropriate excitement.

"You're grinnin like an idiot while I'm up here getting shot at. Ass." Marco declared, lowering his visor and checking his ammo count.

"Aw come on, Corporal, been huffing iron all day. 'Bout time we got some action."

"Whatever. Non-standard rule of engagement, we shoot them until they stop shooting at us."

"Get some!" West shouted, the last part of his declaration muffled by his lowering visor. The two marines moved down the hill towards the compound, vectoring towards a gatehouse structure as rounds pinged off their armor doing little except to scratch the paint. A man in body armor stood behind the rolling metal gate just outside the door to the stone building, taking potshots at them with a handgun. A small crack appeared in his visor as a lucky round pinged against the armored glass. He let out a startled yelp and then, embarrassed by his outburst, gave the gate guard his retort. Three 8mm spikes exploded out the back of the hapless guard sending bits of his body exploding outward violently from the kinetic impacts before blasting straight through the stone wall. Marco chuckled at him as he rolled up on his left and with a quick jerk, shoved the gate open. They moved in together, each covering their respective flanks as they moved up to the door. Ignoring the gory mess of the guard at their feet, they hammered through the wooden door and reduced it to splinters as they entered some kind of canteen area. Several more of the residents shouted and stood up from their tables and turned a variety of weapons in their directions. An older cowboy hatted fellow did the opposite and wisely dove for cover on the ground behind some vending machine while his compatriots opened up on the two marines. The armored men waded through the heavy gunfire, shouldering their rifles to save ammunition and lumbered forward at speed to engage their targets up close.

One man's head exploded as Marco brought his hands together in a vicious clap, the thunder of it stunning several others with the visceral display of his suit's power. West grasped a struggling man in each gauntlet, dashing them against the floor one after another until nothing was left but wet smears and strips of ragged clothing clinging to his hands. Ramirez backhanded a screaming assailant, his cry cut short by the sickening crack of his neck breaking from the force. He cocked his fist back and rocketed it into the chest of another fighter before that man had hit the floor. His latest target bouncing hard against the tile floor, his death instant from the massive crater hammered into his ribcage. The silence that followed was profound, making each drip of blood sound cataclysmic in its deathly wake. The two marines scanned the room and found only the cowboy hat wearing fellow left alive. His hands raised in surrender, the man looked up at them with no fear in his eyes. Surprised and more than a little curious, Marco raised his visor and peered down at him.

"Well, I reckon you fellas probably ain't from around here. Name's Meyers."

Ramirez held up a hand to forestall anything West was about to say and fixed the kneeling man in a firm glare. "Mr. Meyers, I'm curious as to why you didn't help your former comrades here with the fighting."

"We don't really see eye to eye, I'm just here to do my time."

"Your time?"

"This here is the NCRCF, New California Republic Correctional Facility. At least it was, until some of the boys here staged a riot and took over the place."

"Who runs this place now? And why did they start shooting as soon as they spotted us?"

"The riot was put together by Samuel Cooke, but he took off with some boys up north. Right now, Eddie and his boys run the place. They've got the guns and dynamite, so they call the shots. Most of the boys here are hardened criminals, the rest like me, are just men who got on the wrong side of the law at one point or another and just aiming to keep our heads down till our time is up."

"So this is a prison, and some of the inmates staged a riot, took over the prison and are now doing what?"

"Raiding caravans and such along the highways; murderin' and thievin', the usual gang bullshit."

Marco stroked his chin in thought for a moment, "So no one is going to get bent out of shape too badly if we 'liberate' this complex and help ourselves to the spoils?"

"There are as some that would call that wasteland justice. It ain't like they asked nice when the prisoners took over. The NCR sure ain't in no rush to take the place back. If you got the stones, I say they get what they deserve."

Marco turned to his grinning subordinate and nodded grimly, his serious demeanor threatened by the almost palpable excitement from the younger man. The corporal activated his comm bead, "You pick that up Sergeant? Lt?"

Lt. Weyland came on the comm, "Sounds like we'll be doing the local population a favor by getting rid of these buggers." Sergeant Petreko agreed vociferously, "Hells yeah boys, take down some bad guys and get some scratch for ourselves? Sounds like a win win to me. Vasquez wants in on this. I'm sending her to your 20. Stand by and do it by the numbers."

Back at base camp, Vasquez grinned as she set the C-14 Impaler down and lovingly picked up her chain gun. It was a whore on ammo, but if the boys were right about how much salvage the compound had, it would be a worthy investment. She linked the massive weapon to her suit, the power supply syncing up and her HUD affirming that her little beauty was fully loaded and ready to rumble. Snapping a quick salute to the Lt and sergeant, she jogged off in the direction of the complex, her heart already pounding with excitement at the violence about to ensue.

* * *

"I never did ask, what's the name of your planet?" Griff asked casually, moving carefully around some loose rock as the group made their way to a settlement the courier had called, 'Sloan'.

"Earth" Paul replied, just as casually. He had taken several more steps before he realized that the others had stopped following him. He turned around quizzically and noted the shocked expressions on his traveling companions. "What's wrong?"

Griff was the first to shake off the sudden chill that trickled down his spine like the icy hand of death running his fingertips lovingly across his back. Things began to make more sense to him, that odd feeling of familiarity that he had felt since coming here. "Earth? Did the UED fall? Were they the ones who were involved in this Great War you mentioned?"

"Never heard of any 'UED', the Great War was primarily fought between the United States and China."

This couldn't be right; those nations existed hundreds of years ago on Earth before humanity settled the Koprulu sector. He was born and raised on Mar Sara, notwithstanding the evacuations from zerg aggression, his entire family going back to the initial colonization were from there. Earth was a chapter in the history books, with only cursory information regarding the state of affairs on the distant homeworld. On a frontier planet like Mar Sara, other topics were of far more pressing concern to the people. And until the UED expeditionary fleet showed up and attempted to conquer the sector, no one had really given Earth any thought. The 'Brood War' brought to the fore just what price ignorance could exact as the entire sector was embroiled into a wider conflict with their cousins from Earth. Since the UED were driven off, a great deal of time and energy was devoted to speculation as to what Earth would do next. Most figured it was just a matter of time before they came back, and in a big way.

"So, is this area some forgotten backwater then? There is a more developed society, cities maybe, somewhere else out there?" Captain Johnson was starting to get the idea that maybe he could surreptitiously enter a UED controlled city and somehow 'borrow' a ship that could get his people home.

"No, not really. You see New Vegas over there? That's pretty much as close to civilization as you are going to get. There are some cities and such in the NCR territories, but they're not going to offer anything better than what you can get here. Plus the trip would be ill-advised with the Legion and NCR troops staring each other down. Mark my words, war is coming… soon."

He wrinkled his brow in confusion, his hopes dashed by the news from Mr. Maxson. He supposed it would have been too much to ask for to get a simple solution. But if this was Earth, then where were the UED? He hadn't seen any indication that this civilization would have been capable of sending an expedition to the Koprulu sector at all, let alone with the size and strength of the forces he had fought against in the war. He decided that though the mystery was profound, he couldn't devote much more energy than the occasional musing thought. It didn't help him or his to get them back home, so he filed it away for later. The immediate issues still remained. He focused his mind on the here and now as his feet hit pavement and he could make out a roadblock ahead with some people dressed like construction workers milling about in a small settlement. 'This must be Sloan' he thought to himself, somewhat disappointed in the state of the 'town' they were approaching. There were some barricades set up and no more than 4 ramshackle buildings built from corrugated metal scraps and a rickety wooden outhouse. One of the locals, an older man approached them warily as they walked up, followed by the ugliest… thing, he had ever seen. It looked a bit like an overgrown mole, a pink creature about the size of a medium dog with a few sparse hairs sprouting from its wrinkled body. It had oversized incisors and seemed to be favoring one of its legs as it ambled over to them. It sniffed at them curiously, its whiskered snout wrinkling as a pig like snuffle issued from its mouth. Sophia bent down to examine the creature, her medical curiosity compelling the medic to take a closer look at the mole while he, the courier and Sharon greeted the foreman.

"Hold up there, there are deathclaws all over the damn place north of here. I'd turn back if I were you." The foreman said as he approached the group, his hands up in a 'halt' gesture.

Griff nodded towards Paul, a subtle reminder to them both that they had agreed to let the courier take the lead on talking to the locals, given the courier's familiarity.

"Paul Maxson, courier," The courier began, by way of introductions, "and these are my companions, Griff Johnson, his wife Sharon and Sophia Bourgeois. We're actually here looking for some Great Khans, maybe you've seen 'em around? Specifically, someone called Melissa Lewis."

"Well I should hope I know about 'em," the foreman answered, "especially considering that Melissa is my daughter. They call me Chomps, Chomps Lewis."

A/N: I realize that this chapter ended rather abruptly, but I wanted to get this update out before the storm of my weekend hit. The way my weeks have been lately, I may as well just start pushing updates on Thursdays. I will be out of town this next week, so there may not be an update next Thursday.


	7. Chapter 6: Force Majeure

**Chapter 6**

 **Force Majeure**

" _Force_ _always attracts men of low morality, and I believe it to be an invariable rule that tyrants of genius are succeeded by scoundrels._ _"_

 _~Albert Einstein_

The desperate wails from the ragtag and pitiful group didn't impact him in the same way that their thoughts, awash with tremulous energy and drowning in desperation did. An overwhelming sense of loss and abject fear hit him over and over again like ocean waves, the undertow of powerful emotions almost pulling him physically down into their swirling foaming depths. The sensation went beyond empathy; he WAS the tired and broken man who had failed his family, he was the terrified mother almost insane with the need to protect her young.

He had intended to skirt the group in the shallow valley below him after observing their behavior for a short time, reasoning that he shouldn't get involved in local affairs without a full understanding of the politics governing the area. This plan was rent asunder as he opened his mind to the full extent of his otherworldly perception, rendering himself vulnerable to the powerful emotions boiling amidst the people he observed. He tried to shut them out and relax his breathing, the residual feelings causing him to tense up and his muscles to tremble in sympathy to their torment. He focused his mind to discern the truth of what his eyes told him, peeling back the layers of subjective empathy to divine the facts.

There were several men deployed in an almost soldierly way, whose thoughts broadcast their discipline, loyalty and brutality in service to their leader, their "Caesar". They were well armed and kept careful watch on their surroundings, but even their keen overlapping gazes could not penetrate the light warping stealth field of his Nex stealth module. Their prize, a small group of families huddled beneath them, were intended as slaves to serve their growing Legion. It was bitter irony that their slavers were themselves slaves to the Legion they served, being bereft of that vital component of free thought. Their individual liberties freely subjugated to their all-consuming desire to conquer in the name of their ideology.

His lips curled in disgust as he allowed himself a moment of reminiscence, the memory of his indoctrination as a ghost operative and subsequent recruitment into Project Shadowblade bringing unwelcome anguish in tandem with the torment of the slaves. When the project seemingly failed, he had then festered in the depths of New Folsom, discarded like refuse by that bastard Mengsk with his fellow spectres for the simple sin of being individuals. He relished the day that Tosh and Raynor had liberated them, and felt a deep and abiding respect for both men; especially Raynor, who held up liberty as one of the worthiest purposes one could embrace.

His mind braced with determination, he took up his AGR-14, focused anger tightening its grip on his weapon as he harnessed the wash of emotion to drive his actions. The stealth field faded with an electrical sizzle, the loss of one of his greatest tactical advantages subordinate to his selfish need for the slavers to fully realize the doom coming upon them. He ignored their shouts of alarm as irrelevant as he raised his rifle and sent hypersonic death into the first two sentries, the kinetic force of the impacts blasting their bodies back explosively. The other slavers reacted with appreciable alacrity, throwing spears with accuracy and strength; their intimate course slicing through the air to penetrate his flesh. His gifts allowed him to 'see' their intention and the trajectory of their attacks even as they made them, their lightning fast reflexes paling in comparison to his precognitive ability. He stepped to the left as he walked, dodging two of the thrown missiles with contemptuous ease and then adjusted the muzzle of his weapon up and to the right to deflect the last spear.

The nearest legionnaire drew a machete and assumed a combat stance, hesitating for only a moment before slicing vertically with his sharp weapon at the undaunted spectre. Ashur halted abruptly to let the blade whistle by in front of him and then stepped in and rammed his fist into the man's throat, crushing his larynx and sending his foe to the ground futilely attempting to gasp past the crushed cartilage. Bullets whizzed by as the remaining slavers disregarded muzzle discipline towards their new property or even their fellow soldiers by spraying the area with fire in the vain attempt to put down their mysterious assailant.

He fired point blank into a young legionnaire frantically attempting to clear a jammed round from an old bolt action rifle, the man's head snapping back and sending a spray of blood and brain matter arcing through the air. Ashur caught him before he fell and braced him up to shield him from the continuing small arms fire. The slaves, the taste of their terror reaching sharp new pungency on the back of his tongue, sprawled low to the ground. The women cradled their children protectively while the men shielded their wives and mothers. Laying his weapon on the shoulder of his corpse shield, he sent the last 3 rounds of his magazine into the face and chest of the deadliest of his remaining threats, the large Legion soldier's better training and armament marking him as the leader of this group. The threat was erased vividly and literally, everything from the navel up disappearing in a visceral spray of heat spill that decorated the ground behind him.

He let his rifle slide down the left side of his meat shield and caught it in the angle of his foot and lower leg. He jerked the machete free from his shield's belt with his right and grabbed a firm hold of the man's limp neck with his left. Heaving clockwise, he used the weight of the dead man to propel his body and accelerate the machete with the centrifugal force straight into the neck of the last Legionnaire. The last man fell back onto his rump with a wet scream, the sound contorted by the blood welling up into his mouth and the steel imbedded in his vocal cords.

Ashur kicked his rifle up and caught it, reloading and charging the weapon with well-practiced ease. He crouched and panned through the cardinal compass points, extending his senses in tandem with his augmented sight to scan the area for additional threats. Sensing none, he relaxed slightly, holding his weapon up against his right shoulder as he glanced down at the shivering family.

Moving towards them slowly and calmly, he channeled his talents to send soothing thoughts to them, effacing the ragged edge of their adrenaline fueled fear. He removed his mask as he crouched a short distance away, holding it and his rifle away from his body to present a docile demeanor and reinforce his peaceful intentions. He was patient as the seconds turned to minutes, the rustle of dried plants and tumbleweeds the only sound to accompany the low mournful wind. The youngest child, a boy of perhaps 4, though it was difficult to tell due to the state of severe malnourishment wasting his limbs, looked up first. The child, looking for all the world like the very embodiment of famine, peered at him with wide startling blue eyes. Ashur felt the barest brush of contact in his mind, a gently curious zephyr ghosting across his psychic perception. He narrowed his eyes as he concentrated on the boy and felt in him the stirring well of psychic potential in his young developing brain. They reached out to one another, both psionically and physically, their hands outstretched to mirror the invisible waves of energy meeting each other for the first time. The physical touch was like a shock of static, his gloved hand lightly touching the boy's emaciated fingers.

A mere hour later, Specialist Shalev walked ahead of short line of refugees, his quiet voice soothing the young boy in his arms as his parents trudged along behind him, their thoughts burdened with the uncertainty but daring to hope. A single mother and her daughter followed after, more optimistic than their erstwhile fellows; their hope lending their bodies with enough strength to keep up with the spectres long strides. A ragged but youthful man took up the rear, his expression thoughtful even through the weariness.

Captain Griff was on the comm with him, affirming his plan to take the refugees back to the base camp along with the supplies he had liberated from the slavers. Signing off, he glanced at the boy in his arms, the child's unruly hair tousling in the wind as he quietly gazed at the passing landscape, his mind open and eager.

* * *

The chain gun roared like a long metal zipper being pulled, the sound magnified a thousand-fold and punctuated by the sounds of disintegrating rock and the shocked 'tinks' of steel meeting steel. Vasquez laughed as she swung the weapon from tower to tower, erasing the powder ganger guards stationed there in a storm of hypersonic metal.

In the many conflicts that she had been engaged in during her time amongst Raynor's Raiders, they often found themselves outclassed, technologically by the Protoss and numerically by the Zerg. More often than not, victory was snatched from the whimsical hands of fate more by pure moxy or luck than any other factor. But not here; here, she had the edge, her CMC-300 armor whirring with power from the heat exchange turbines on her back and the gentle tinkle of raining brass as her chain gun bellowed its fury. Powder gangers fired back ineffectually from their heights, the rifles barking back single shots which pinged off her armor which did little more than scratch the paint. She moved forward from the building that served as the entry control point to the compound, letting Ramirez and West come out behind her and begin laying fire down on the scattered convicts in the yard.

Thus far, they had secured the former sheriff Meyers and one other convict who also bore no inclination to meet oblivion with his former compatriots. The man had simply been serving his time for petty larceny and was nearing the end of his sentence when the riot broke out. Though he was somewhat craven, he had felt that sense of obligation to fulfill his term rather than be branded a greater outlaw than he already was and face the consequence when the NCR eventually retook the facility.

Marco, though as excited as the other marines to be involved in this level of asynchronous combat, was wholeheartedly committed to maintaining both his honor and that of the Raiders. He reiterated to his fellow marines that the rules of engagement were to be fully observed. Noncombatants were not to be engaged and anyone who surrendered would be given quarter. Still, it was satisfying on more than one level to be directing righteous wrath at these men who stood against them, knowing that most of them were violent offenders and had taken up their old professions with enthusiasm after having slaughtered the prison guards and taken the compound for themselves.

A screaming bald man, laughingly wearing nothing but cut off shorts and suspenders, jumped up from behind his cover with a fizzing stick of dynamite clutched in his dirty fist. Ramirez used his HUD assisted targeting to send a 3 round burst at the insane prisoner, dropping him before he could throw his explosive. A loud bang added its voice to the clamor as baldy exploded, remnants of his body tossed up and out in a grisly fountain of pink mist and dirt.

The yard quieted as Vasquez's metaphorical husband ran dry on ammo, the whirring of the chain mechanism winding down in an almost saddening decrescendo. Marco and Nathan could both see the reluctance in her stance as she set down her favored weapon and pulled the standard C-14 Impaler from its magnetic grapple on her back. With the chain gun silenced, it became evident that there was no return fire, every tower having been thoroughly voided of life and the yard littered with the detritus of their enemies.

At a nod from the corporal, the three of them spread out to secure the compound. He and West each took one of the out buildings, cell blocks by their appearance, and rammed in their wooden doors. The splinters violently foretold their entrance as their greeting was met with more gunfire from within. They re-emerged moments later, the handful of prisoners within each cell block having been put down with ruthless efficiency.

They reconvened with Vasquez at the entrance of what appeared to be the largest building in the complex, a two story structure that bore every resemblance to a main administrative center. The tactical scans courtesy of their power armor showed several heat signatures inside, as many men rushing about as they had already encountered outside. Disinclined to allow the prisoners more time to prepare, Vasquez led the way, kicking in the door with far more force than necessary; splintering the age-rotted wood and sending chunks of the door flying inward.

They moved with methodical precision, clearing corners and covering one another as they moved through the first floor of the complex. They quickly disposed of one man standing behind a bed in what appeared to be a medical station and apprehended another huddling behind a flimsy table and chair.

"Aw man! I'm just the medic! I didn't have anything to do with the riot, I swear!" The prisoner cried, as if he could convince them by virtue of the sheer volume of his protest.

"Name and status, convict." Marco spoke, the monotone voice issuing from his helmet speakers granting the simple words an ominous aspect.

"Hannigan, I am… er was, er am the medic. I was just doing my time when the guys led by that scary fuckin Cooke guy kicked this shit off. I didn't know anything about it!"

"Why are you here?"

"Safer behind walls, besides, they can't risk their only medic to go out on raids and shit, am I right?"

"No, why were you a prisoner?" Marco grimaced, his patience quickly eroding.

"Oh that, thought the quartermaster wouldn't notice a few supplies going missing now and again… I was wrong."

"Petty thief." Marco grunted, "Disarm him, tie him up, toss him in a corner."

In moments, the hapless medic was fettered like an animal and tossed like so much refuse onto one of the beds. Not sparing the moaning prisoner another glance, the three moved on and finished clearing the first floor.

Bullets immediately began pinging off his armor plate as West led the way up the stairs to the second floor, several men in black vest-like body armor firing down the staircase at them with submachine guns. The sheer number of rounds was problematic, like a heavy rain on a tin roof both in sound and effect. Eventually, something is going to get through. His HUD showed his armor integrity dropping from green to yellow as the storm of lead found weaknesses. An alarm resounded in his ear as a single round actually penetrated one of the armored cable feeds.

Anger spiked his combat haze, bringing into sharp relief how reckless he had become facing these inferior opponents. Now his hardskin was damaged to the point where his effectiveness was down 40%, a fact that will earn him some sharp words from the engineers who were already overtaxed trying to get a command center up and running using only the rusted metal hulks they found on the highways.

He ducked back behind the first landing, using the wall as defilade against their fire as he primed one of the few grenades in his kit. Terran marines rarely carried fragmentation grenades, their effectiveness was very limited when in combat against other marines, the hardened carapaces of the Zerg or the plasma shielding of the Protoss. Instead, they had taken to carrying a few stun grenades, modified flashbangs created by that egghead Stetmen that could overwhelm the sensory systems of even the EMP hardened suits they wore. Against, an unarmored enemy, their effects should be suitably impressive.

After Marco and Vasquez gave him the thumbs up, he underhanded the grenade up the stairs at the bulwark of ex-convicts above them. Bracing themselves around the corner, they waited for the telltale flash and ringing to indicate the detonation. Instead their ears were greeted by sounds of panicked alarm which were quickly followed by pained screams and thuds as the men flailed about.

Ramirez took the lead since stairway had been designed for normal sized people and as such was too narrow for more than one marine to ascend at once. He drew his stub pistol in his right as he held his Impaler in his left, firing down at the stunned prisoners as he moved through their former blockade. West and Vasquez came up behind him and spread out just as another group of prisoners emerged from a room to their right.

Vasquez could have laughed at the ridiculous sight as a man sporting an impressive Mohawk and wearing an eyepatch lunged at her with spiked knuckledusters on his fists. The veins stood out in his neck and his presumable good eye flashed with chemically induced rage, spittle flying from his mouth as he shouted incoherently. With a tap on the side of her Impaler, a nano-forged blade sprang from beneath the muzzle with a 'schinkt'. She drew back as if wielding a spear and drove it into the man's midsection just as he lunged forward to attack, his momentum halted as surely as if he had slammed into a brick wall. She easily lifted him up and over, letting the inertia pull him off the blade as his body slid on the floor. He yowled at his split abdomen, messily grabbing at the intestines pouring out of the grievous wound in stinking ropes of flesh.

A bright green flash interrupted her macabre fascination with the dying idiot as heat blossomed on her right side. Her HUD indicated an alarm condition as another bolt of green energy splashed against her armor, the 'plasma' beginning to melt the plate. Apparently, the locals did have some impressive technology, as the last of the prisoners fired bolts of plasma at them, the angry grimace on his face broadcasting his hate almost as effectively as his pistol. Marco ended his ranting fusillade with a full burst into his face. Overkill as the first round obliterated his face with finality, leaving nothing but pink misted air for the second and third spike to pass through before they embedded themselves into the far wall.

By the time the three marines updated Sgt Petreko with their SITREP, over twenty enemy combatants had been neutralized and four had surrendered. They created a pile of the various arms and equipment the 'powder gangers' had left for later cataloging and laid the bodies out along the back fence for later burial.

Their comm beads chirped as they worked, indicating an incoming communique from the big guy.

"Ramirez, I got your report from Petreko, fine work. I want you to hold station there, put the prisoners to work clearing away enough space for the command center to land. Send West back to get his hardskin checked out. If it's as bad as it shows, he will have to stay at basecamp and stand watch there. That leaves Vasquez on scrap duty."

"Aw fuck man." Vasquez moaned, hearing the orders.

Marco chuckled at her expense as West muttered with chagrin, his armor protesting stiffly as he headed back to base camp.

* * *

"I wish I could say I didn't remember much, cuz all it does is remind me of how crappy it is out here."

Sunny Smiles and Cheyenne listened to Jacky talk about her younger years as they walked, heading to the springs to the south to clear out the latest nest of geckos that sent one of the residents into Doc Mitchell's care.

"What can I say? It was home. Clean but cramped, plenty to eat, clean water, a bed to sleep in that actually had pillows and blankets and no bed mates aside from the human sort. Invitation only."

Sunny raised an eyebrow at that last part, but had the wherewithal not to comment. It was obvious that there was some history there, of the traumatizing sort and Sunny wasn't one to pry.

"I guess I was just a coward, as I was nearing the end." Jacky hung her head as the painful memories came to the fore, "I've heard it's different for the other Vaults, but in ours once you reached 20 years old, you went into the sleep chamber for the long sleep. That way there would always be room and stuff for the new generation of people."

"So you ran when your time came?" Sunny asked, masking her astonishment at the revelation.

"Well, no, I was only 16 then. But I loved someone, someone older. His time came and instead of throwing him his Lastday party, I convinced him to run away with me, to the outside." Her eyes brimmed with tears at the heartache of that lost first love. "We actually made it through the vault door, no one suspected anything, or so we thought."

Sunny didn't interrupt her musing as Jacky paused telling her story, her eyes very far away and tinged with a hint of fear.

"We called him the Sandman." Jacqueline spoke so quietly that Sunny had to strain to hear her, "It was just a story, told over and over to scare the little ones into behaving. Can you imagine the panic that comes from seeing a childhood ghost story come to life in front of you?"

She didn't wait for Sunny to respond, "He was tall, dressed in a sandy brown overcoat and a mirrored mask that showed nothing of his face. Or her, could have been a her I guess. One minute the vault door was opening and we were all smiles and full of hope. The next _he_ was there, standing between us and the way out."

Cheyenne barked a warning, startling Jacky for a moment before she wiped the moisture from her eyes and drew 'Lucky'. Sunny raised her rifle and together they began to fire at the geckos running at them, their high pitched warbling cries punctuated by the roar of their guns. Most of her shots went wide before she relaxed and remembered her lessons.

"Line up your sights, breathe out, and… pull." Jacky murmured to herself.

The shot tore through the air and entered the geckos head with a wet squelch, dropping the hapless creature to the ground with hardly a whimper.

"There you go, now you got the hang of it!" Sunny beamed, slapping Jacky's shoulder affectionately.

Jacky nodded and smiled back at her, trying not to blush too much from the embarrassment of killing one little gecko while Sunny and Cheyenne methodically took out the other four.

Jacky continued her story while Sunny set about the dirty job of skinning the lizards and harvesting them of their meatiest bits.

"Adam… he just started yelling at me to 'run run!' and he… he charged at the thing. So I did, I ran. Adam wasn't a big guy but he grappled with the Sandman and let me squeeze by into the cave outside the vault door. I expected to hear him beside me at any moment, instead I heard Adam cry out in pain…"

The tears were now pouring down Jacky's cheeks as she spoke faster, as if to lessen the pain of the memory by getting through it in a rush.

"Oh god, I will never… NEVER forget that sound. It was the purest agony I had ever heard. I almost didn't believe Adam could have made that sound. I turned around, just in time to see Adam fall to the ground like a mess of wet rags, like he was fucking trash. The Sandman, Adam's blood was dripping from his hands, and he just looked at me. I was petrified by it, that damn stare. All I could see was my reflection in his mask, a tired and scared little girl facing the boogeyman. He hadn't moved, he hadn't breathed or said anything or did anything but stand there, even as the vault door started to close. I was stuck, frozen in shock as the door squealed shut right in my face. I don't know how long I stood there. How long I banged and yelled and pleaded and cursed and cried; at the door, at the Sandman, at Adam, fuck… anyone. I don't even know what I wanted."

Sunny tried and failed to stymie the flow of her own tears as she sympathized with Jacky. Her horror at the story only eclipsed by the overwhelming sadness she could almost feel coming off of Jacky in waves.

"And shortly after that, some people who were running from NCR troopers saw me, as dirty and worn out as they were, and picked me up. Maybe they thought I was one of them that had gotten lost. Maybe they just saw a kindred soul, or maybe they just saw someone weaker than they were and were just trying to take something from a world that had beaten them."

"The Viper gang? This is when they took you in?" Sunny asked.

"Yeah, about a year ago. Though my life with them… well let's just say that if the courier _had_ put a bullet in me instead of letting me go, I would have thanked him just the same for it."

Sunny had no response to that, so she simply pulled the younger woman into a sideways hug as they walked companionably to the next spring.

* * *

I am heading out for vacation tomorrow, and I probably won't be doing much writing then. I had this Chapter done already, so I thought I would go ahead and post it. You'll just have to wait a little longer for the next update. Here's a little spoiler for the next Chapter, the courier and the captain are in Quarry junction, Jacky heads out for Primm, and our little band of Raynor's Rangers meets the Brotherhood of Steel.


	8. Chapter 7: Rage

**Chapter 7**

 **Rage**

" _Men ought either be to be indulged or utterly destroyed, for if you merely offend them they take vengeance, but if you injure them greatly they are unable to retaliate, so that the injury done to a man ought to be such that vengeance cannot be feared."_

 _~Niccolo Machiavelli_

The shining metal bulkheads of the newly completed command center stood as a monument to contradictions. Normally cold and sterile, the metal halls were filled with warmth and laughter as children ran unfettered through the complex.

Their playful cries echoed and reverberated through its steel corridors, the comfortably cool air amplifying the sound of the children's play and buoyed the spirits of those who toiled within. Even the taciturn engineer Luca found himself smiling as they heedlessly swarmed past him, both he and his newly appointed trainee struggling with their balance as the miniature riot jostled him on their way to where ever innocent hearts led.

The man beside him called out after the now fleeing pack, his scold countermanded by his light tone and the laughter in his heart. His half-hearted argument losing further momentum as it chased after the children and became lost in the bowels of the cavernous processing center.

Scott felt as though he was riding amongst the clouds, as if infused with a cocktail of the various chems that plagued so many in the wasteland. He had never, even in his wildest imaginings, conjured that such a sense of security and comfort existed anywhere in this world, let alone been his to revel in.

He and Luca had spent the better part of the morning on the lower level of the command center. The engineer patiently explained the workings of the 'SCV' which sat inert in front of them. The SCV, or Space Construction Vehicle, as Luca had explained, was a marvel of technology that Scott had never seen. He was astounded by wonder at the work that could be done by such a single piece of engineering.

Just a day ago he was a beaten man, crouching in the hard packed Mojave dirt while Legion slavers held him and his family enthralled within shackles of fear. It was just a day ago when an angel of death appeared and summoned forth its wrath to deliver those men to their ruin. And when they had been undone, it had laid aside the mask of fierce rancor to show the hand of compassion.

Ignorant and fearful, they had barely entered the canyons north of Goodsprings when the afternoon sunlight reflected off of smooth metal contours to dazzle their eyes and confound the senses. They had groped in their blindness for a comforting hand as they were led further in the canyons.

The light subsided and eased its pressure on their eyes only to reveal a sight which stole their collective breath with awe. The rounded dome-like structure rose massive and stalwart above the baking desert, its smooth metal curvature and bright azure paint contrasting sharply with the dreary brown landscape it straddled like a conquering titan.

After they had gotten settled in and introduced to the others at the camp, which surprisingly included some ex-convicts from the NCRCF, he had asked about finding some way to earn his keep. Scott had worked in a repair shop, earning a good living from travelers heading to New Vegas from the east before the Legion moved in and razed his home and business to the ground. He was quickly given over to Luca and Dominic, fellow engineers he easily recognized from their rough banter and the grease stains they wore like badges of pride.

Though the technology was beyond him, he was able to intuitively grasp the mobile suit's intricacies to the point where the engineers had proudly proclaimed that he was taking to it like a duck to water… whatever a duck was.

Their technology appealed to his mechanical mindset, especially how they were able to repurpose junk into useable material to construct the 'command center' they now stood in. It further astonished him that it had only taken a few days to do so, using only the shattered wrecks littering the highways around New Vegas.

His wife Louise was on the top level with Lt. Weyland and the adjutant, an amazing construct of wires and molded plastic that vaguely resembled a woman in both form and tone. Their initial shock upon seeing such an automaton was profound, yet they had quickly divested themselves preconceptions given the extremity of their paradigm shift.

Eager to be useful and to stay on their host's good graces, his wife Louise had also volunteered to work in any way they could use her. Even now, the adjutant was describing the various systems that she would operate. Louise and the other woman liberated from the slavers furiously taking notes and attempting to absorb the massive amount of information.

Apparently this monstrous bulwark of the visitor's engineering prowess could take to the skies on massive 'Atlas' booster rockets, allowing the command center to relocate when necessary. They were planning to do exactly that and were capitalizing on the fortuitous appearance of willing and able people to achieve that aim.

Their soldiers had located a large cache of resources at the former NCRCF they could make use of and had convinced the former prisoners to leave the facility to them. The few remaining ex-convicts and the deference they displayed toward their mutual hosts spoke volumes as to the effectiveness of those negotiations.

Once the sounds of the children's enthusiasm had faded into the labyrinth of corridors, Scott turned his attention back to Luca, the surly engineer struggling and failing to maintain his dour countenance as he gruffly continued his lecture.

* * *

The great horned beast spun crazily, its deep bellows trumpeting the air and vibrating deep in the pit of the courier's stomach. A sharp retort broadcast the lethality of the second .308 round as it punched another hole into the deathclaw's hide. The creature ceased its pained cries long enough to fix the group in a rage maddened glare.

More fire poured into the hapless creature like a molten rain as Griff, Sharon and WO Bourgeois added their own firepower to the courier's. Finally, the volume of metal perforating the deathclaw's body proved too much for even this fierce wasteland creature and it fell to the ground with a plaintive and drawn out moan.

"Was that the 8th or 9th we've put down?" Asked Griff, the smoke hissing from the barrel of his sidearm.

"I've lost count." The courier replied, shouldering his sniper rifle.

"Well, I hope that this woman you're looking for is actually up here." Sharon stated sardonically.

Paul shrugged, "Chomps seemed convinced," he looked around, leery of any further deathclaws coming at them, "she is supposed to be waiting up here for a shipment of raw material for their chem making."

The medic, WO Sophia Bourgeois glanced at the courier disapprovingly at the mention of 'chems'. Though no stranger to the chemical stimulants, and in fact possessing a fair degree of expertise in their manufacture and use, she was first and foremost a medical officer. She was disinclined to view the recreational use of stimulants with any degree of favor.

Paul could only shrug again at the withering look the medic gave him. He didn't use them himself, seeing what chem addiction could do to people, but felt that he was in no position to judge anyone their vices.

The group maneuvered along the edges of the quarry, their footsteps crunching in the loose scree as they sought to make the rise where Chomps Lewis had thought his daughter's camp lay. They moved as quietly as they could, hoping to fortune that their progress would not be further impeded by the deathclaws that infested the site.

The sun began to dip below the horizon and with the failing light of day they spotted the flicker from a small campfire being lit further up the ridge. Paul raised a battered set of binoculars to his eyes and scanned the area, nodding as he focused in on where the camp was revealed.

"I see them, Great Khans. That must be the camp." He stated, setting his binoculars aside as he gestured up the rise.

"It's a good position; the only approach from below is very narrow." Griff noted.

"Well, let's get to it then," the courier declared.

The tired troupe continued their trek up the earthen ramps along the edges of the quarry their view of the campsite momentarily blocked by a massive yellow crane, its abandoned metal body caked with chalky white dirt.

They mounted the final ramp up to the ledge which held the camp and beheld a trio of Great Khans eyeing them warily with their weapons in hand. A Hispanic woman brushed past her fellows to face the group, a distrustful scowl painted on her face.

"Melissa Lewis?" The courier asked.

"That's me, who are you and what the hell are you doing up here?" The woman replied, her grip tightening on her hunting rifle.

"Regis sent me, said you are someone Papa Khan listens to and I need your help to convince him that your tribe needs to break its ties with Caesar."

"You came up here to talk?" Melissa asked, incredulous.

Paul nodded, "The legion is no good for your tribe. It's no good for anybody in the Mojave. You need to convince Papa Khan to go your own way and not to trust in the promises of Caesar."

"Now why exactly would I do that? Seems to me that the Legion offers us a pretty good deal."

Though not exactly made welcome, the group settled around the campfire in the middle of the Great Khans camp as the courier and Ms. Lewis continued their discussion. Paul had a way with words and seemed to have a way with women as well, as it didn't take long before Melissa and the other Great Khans were at ease and laughing at his stories.

The conversation lasted long into the night and as the folks settled in one by one to nestle themselves deep in the arms of Morpheus a sense of satisfaction pervaded the camp. The courier achieved what he had set out to; and in return for Melissa's help had agreed to perform some errands for the Great Khans.

Griff and Sharon settled comfortably in each other's arms by the dying light of the fire, content to let the day's events pass into history as their minds focused on their task. They hoped that by helping the courier with his 'errands' they could endear themselves to the various groups he dealt with and gain some much needed assistance with their own desire to return home.

Though extremely reticent, Sophia had agreed to share some of her biochemical expertise with the Great Khans to help foster that good relationship. The plan was to return to the crash site and assist the team in moving the newly completed command center to its new location at the former NCRCF before helping the Great Khans deliver some chemicals to a tribe known as the 'Fiends'. The name did not inspire the group with confidence that they would be meeting a benevolent people, but they resolved to not let misconceptions guide their actions while in this strange land.

* * *

"I'm hoping you won't need to come see me anytime soon, though I'd welcome your company any time." Doc Mitchell said warmly, smiling at the determined young woman.

"Sure was nice having you around these last few days, but I guess we each gotta do what feels right." Sunny added, her own affection for Jacky plain upon her face.

The three of them stood in the hallway of Doc Mitchell's home, Jacky dressed and kitted for the road in her reinforced leather armor, 'Lucky' holstered at her side and a bulging pack over her shoulder.

"I don't know how or why fate put me on this path. I don't even know why it was that the courier saw fit to spare me. But I feel like I have to find answers out there somewhere." Jacky gestured vaguely toward the open door and out beyond Good Springs.

"Best get to it then. No use being all cooped up in here." Doc Mitchell gruffly intoned, his sad eyes betraying his tone.

With quick hugs to each of her friends, Jacky shaded her eyes as she stepped out onto the doctor's porch. Sunny and Doc followed her out and paused on the landing as she strolled down the hill to the broken road and turned to follow it past the general store and Trudy's saloon. The road turned south and she followed it, turning to wave at Crazy Pete as he idly sat in front of the saloon, his wrinkled eyes twinkling as he returned her farewell.

She had only been in Goodsprings for a few days, but had found good and true friends there. Still, she felt as though there was something out there waiting for her, some reason she still lived despite everything. Jacky was determined to find that reason, to divine what purpose her life could hold.

She kept Sunny's lessons at the forefront of her thoughts, scanning the horizon for breaks in the natural lines formed by the hills around Good Springs.

She adjusted her heavy pack, many of the items within given to her by Chet to deliver to the Mojave Express office in Primm. The caps he had paid her in advance for the job jangled within the small purse alongside the other money that Doc and Sunny had gifted her with. It was no fortune, but it was enough for this leg of her journey at least.

Jacky planned to continue south to the Mojave Outpost that was run by the NCR hoping to sign on with one of the caravans there as a guard or medic.

There was movement ahead, just past the sad ruin of an ancient truck on the road. A low fire burned next to an old metal trailer which illuminated a pair of men who sat disinterestedly on lengths of timber. She ducked down and moved as quietly as she could to the truck, her heart hammering in her chest and sweat running hot down her back. She peered at the men intently, attempting to gauge their purpose and their demeanor. They wore the blue jackets and dark trousers of the so-called 'powder gangers' and by that alone declared themselves as no friends of hers.

Thankfully, the men paid little attention to their surroundings and bent their focus to the liquor sloshing in half empty bottles as they raised them to drunken lips. Jacky let out a relieved breath and wiped the sweat stinging her eyes as she moved around the truck and continued down the road. She kept at a crouch for some time until she was fairly satisfied that the distance was great enough to disguise her from the men behind.

 _ **A short distance away…**_

Ashur sighed, exhaling the terrazine tinged gas in his rebreather as he watched the girl creep past the camp. Her movements were sloppy but proved sufficient given the lack of reaction from the gangsters. He had spotted her leaving Goodsprings earlier that day and had followed her surreptitiously since then, the wake of her psionic potential drawing him in like a shark to bloodied water.

His senses told him that she had a great deal of potential, possibly class 9 or 10. Even if he were to be suddenly struck blind and deaf, he would be able to easily track the girl simply by following her potent psychic aura.

He was intrigued by the happenstance that had led him to not one, but two gifted people in a matter of days. Both were plagued by some degree of trauma though what little he had gleaned from this girl sent shards of ice shivering down his spine.

He caught glimpses of a population of young people living below ground in a tomb like 'vault' and of a deep seated terror surrounding a figure she termed as the 'sandman'. It was an enigma he was resolved to unravel.

He turned his attention and his gaze back to the steadily diminishing form of the young woman as she continued on her way to Primm. Though young, there was strength in her stride that came from a sense of purpose. Ashur was curious about this one, and decided to watch her for awhile longer.

 _ **A short time later…**_

The sun appeared like a molten blob of metal oozing against the horizon as it settled down to welcome the deepening night. The wind shifted with the change in temperature as the rails of a roller coaster came into view. Though it had only taken the bulk of a single day to reach the town, Jacky felt a palpable sense of relief at the near completion of the first leg of her journey.

NCR troopers glanced her way as she approached the edge of town but did not accost her, simply nodding in her direction while attempting to stifle a bored yawn.

It didn't take her long to find the Mojave Express, its sign competing with the Vicky and Vance casino for her attention. Business first, she thought, as she turned to the brick building. She glanced down at what had to have been a blood stain on the ground to the left of the door, age having turned the blood black. She walked forward while gripping the handle but found her way barred when the door refused to budge.

"You'll have to come back tomorrow, youngster." A voice called from above her.

Looking up, she saw the heavily lined face of an old man leaning out of a second floor window.

"I have a delivery to drop off from Good Springs." She called back, stepping back from the door to get a better look at the man.

"I run this office, I'll be glad to take it… Tomorrow." He repeated before disappearing back inside and closing the window with finality.

"Guess, I come back tomorrow." Jacky muttered petulantly.

The young woman heaved the heavy pack into a more comfortable position on her shoulder and made her way to the Vicky and Vance, hoping for at least a drink and a meal before she found a place to bed down for the night.

The interior of the casino and hotel was much as she expected it, a respectable crowd of folks scattered here and there around several tables arranged around an old car displayed on a dais in the center of the casino floor. She groaned as she set her pack down on her feet with a thud, rubbing her tired shoulders at the weight as she surveyed the place.

She paused mid-step, about to make her way to the bar at the far right end of the casino when the double doors behind her slammed shut with a bang. Whirling around, startled, she saw four rough looking individuals, weapons in hand. The apparent leader of the troupe, a dirt streaked blonde woman in fatigues and red beret, surveyed the casino until her gaze settled onto Jacky.

"Alright boys, time to clean this place out." The woman announced to her compatriots.

"I don't think you want to do that." Jacky stated flatly, squaring herself off against the… Layla.

The woman's name was Layla… though Jacky had no idea how she knew that. Had she met her before? She shook her head at the mystery.

"Heh, you've got moxy, kiddo, but we don't take kindly to tourists on our turf. 100 caps should cover this trip into our territory?" Layla laughed.

"Your territory? I heard that the NCR is handling the law here now."

"Well, shit." Layla muttered, suddenly despondent.

Jacky was confused, her mind seemingly playing tricks on her as she heard unspoken whispers from the group at the mention of the NCR."

"Are you deserters?" Jacky asked, taking the logical leap.

"I like to think that we are Prisoners of War that managed to escape before capture. I don't know how long it'll be before the Legion crosses the river, but sure as fuck I don't want to be wearing an NCR uniform when they get here." Layla explained.

"You should probably just turn yourselves in." Jacky warned, her hackles rising as Layla became more agitated.

"No fucking way. We're deserters now, the NCR isn't going to throw us a ticker-tape parade for going home." Layla snarled, as she drew her pistol.

Panic came to life in Jacky's mind, the bulk of it not even her own. It was as if she were feeling the desperation coming off the group and it was somehow infecting her. Her stomach heaved as her mind became awash with feelings not her own. Before she knew what was happening, Lucky was in hand and pointing at Layla.

Layla and her boys didn't hesitate, moving even as they raised their weapons and filled the short space between them with gunfire. Screams from the casino patrons met the sudden gunfire, though they sounded distorted and heavy as if her head were underwater.

Jacky was sure that the pain would be overwhelming once it blossomed to full life within her, certain that she was even now becoming perforated by the bullets whizzing through the air.

The pain never came, and it struck Jacky as equally incredulous that the gunmen were diving through the air as if it were molasses. The sands of time trickled in a lazy meander instead of its normal flow and everyone save her seemed to be trapped in its slowing course. Bullets slowed as they neared her, allowing her to easily move aside.

Her blood was aflame and roared in her ears in contrast to the deepened moans flowing around her. It was almost comical. Whatever afflicted the four deserters didn't hamper her in the slightest. She was able to aim 'Lucky' at the foremost deserter, a swarthy Hispanic looking man in merc gear.

Click, clack…Boom. The hammer of her pistol thundered against the primer. The gunpowder ignited in an explosion of pressure and gas, propelling the bullet straight into the man's chest with a sickeningly wet squelch. A crimson flower blossomed and his face contorted in slow motion to reflect his agony.

She swung her pistol to her next target, a brutish looking man with a military style flat-top sighting down his rifle straight at her. Again, the double action revolver responded to her trigger pull, the cylinder spinning a fresh round in place behind the barrel with a click. The clack and boom followed shortly after as the hammer cocked back and slammed forward, sending hot lead directly into the face of the blond man. His face disappeared in an ugly orgy of bone and brain matter, the visceral details of his demise played out in nauseating slow motion.

Jacky swallowed the bile rising in her throat, stepping forward and to the left to avoid 3 more bullets as she sighted in to her third target. She fired twice in rapid succession, not even bothering to follow through before fixing Layla in her sights.

Something bade her to reconsider her lethal intent and instead fired the last 2 rounds into her legs. The kinetic force blasted Layla's legs out from under her and sent her sprawling to the ground in a screaming heap. Time finally caught up and decided to resume its normal flow.

Shouts of pain and alarm reached a fever pitch and assailed her with the sudden cacophony. She stepped back, suddenly light headed and dizzy as the color drained from her face.

The NCR troopers who flooded into the casino found Jacky sitting ungracefully with her back against a line of slot machines, the light stain of vomit fresh on her shirt. Layla still lay on the ground, clutching her legs and sobbing obscenities at the ceiling while an NCR medic attempted to triage her.

Much later into the night, Jacky collapsed gratefully on her rented mattress, not bothering to undress or remove her pistol belt. The hard metal jabbing into her pelvis did nothing to stave off her exhaustion and within moments was filling the small room with her soft snores.

Ashur watched from a corner as he rested against the flaking plaster, the exertion of tapping into Jacky's latent psionic power to fuel the metabolic boost having drained him almost unto unconsciousness himself.

Thankfully, the NCR took the casino residents at their word that the 4 now identified deserters were the aggressors and that Jacky had acted quickly and bravely. After a few routine questions, they had let the tired young woman retire and had drug away the bodies and wounded but still alive Layla.

He hoped he wouldn't have to pull that trick again anytime soon. It added a powerful impetus to reveal himself to the young woman but despite that, he still was not quite ready. Ashur also felt that Jacky herself wasn't quite ready for that meeting and was satisfied, for the moment, to wait a bit longer.

* * *

Ramirez surveyed the cleared LZ in the middle of the NCRCF, satisfied that it would be large enough for the command center to land. He had sent the others back to base camp with the liberated prisoners and was going over the site one last time before heading back himself.

His head snapped up and he brought his Impaler to bear as a metal stanchion groaned. He was suddenly twitchy, though he could not rightly say why. He trusted his gut though and did not lower his guard. Marco swept the cardinal points, giving his hardskin's sensors time to scan and catalog his immediate surroundings. He felt a rush of vindication as four amber pips appeared on his HUD, moving steadily in his direction.

Perhaps their easy victory against the prisoners made him too loose. He didn't seek cover and simply waited in the open for the 4 contacts to reveal themselves. His patience was rewarded as the 4 figures approached the outer fence line and stopped.

They were different from the other people they had met and fought with so far. Each of them was armored head to foot in a dull grey metal armor. From his suit's instruments, he could tell that each of them had a power source and from the way the figures moved, it looked like they wore this world's equivalent to power armor.

They bore strange weapons festooned with tubes and dials and switches, like something from a 1950's sci-fi holo-movie. He was impressed that anyone in this wasteland had any sort of advanced technology. He lowered his weapon and raised a hand to salute them just as two of them grabbed an edge of the fence line and tore themselves an entrance.

He lowered his hand, frowning behind his visor at the aggressive display and backed up a step, regretting that he hadn't sought cover or at least kept West or Vasquez with him. He trusted in Terran engineering but he was still alone facing 4 unknowns.

"Base camp, this is Romeo One, I have 4 unidentified individuals wearing power armor and wielding advanced weaponry. They don't look too friendly but they haven't shot at me yet." Marco whispered into his comm bead, hoping to hell that this thing didn't go south.

One of the figures walked ahead of his fellows and stopped a few paces in front of Ramirez, sizing up the big Terran before speaking.

"I am Paladin Graves, of the Mojave Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel. You will surrender yourself and any technology into our custody and accompany us for debriefing."

The three subordinates behind him exchanged glances at his proclamation.

One of them started to speak, "But sir, we're under orders…"

Paladin Graves cut him off with a curt gesture, his armored fist jutting out to the left in a clear warning to the subordinate. His visored gaze never left the Terran, for all the world acting as though his man had never spoken.

Marco replied carefully, "A pleasure to meet you Paladin. I am Corporal Marco Ramirez of Raynor's Raiders. I am afraid I am under orders myself and cannot submit myself to your authority. However, if you would be willing, I can put you in contact with my CO to further discuss the matter."

The paladin took a step forward, clearly agitated. "That was not a request corporal. You will submit to the Brotherhood immediately; your CO and anyone else in your organization will likewise be required to submit."

"Ah now, that would be a problem then Paladin. We aren't the submitting type." Marco replied, his fist tightening its grip on his Gauss rifle.

The subordinate who spoke up before stepped forward and again tried to placate the headstrong paladin. "Sir, there's no need for this to get hostile. We can work on getting a sample of their technology in exchange for something."

"God damn it man! The Brotherhood does not negotiate with wasteland yokels for tech that rightly belongs to us! Now shut your mouth or you'll be polishing power armor with a toothbrush for a month!"

Ramirez didn't appreciate being called a 'yokel' any more than he appreciated that this 'paladin' wasn't going to take no for an answer.

"Ramirez to basecamp, as I am sure you've overheard, this guy isn't the wait and work it out peaceful type. Violence may ensue rather quickly."

A command override bleeped on his comm, announcing that the Captain was about to speak.

"Marco, don't get into a shoot-out with them. Withdraw at speed and rendezvous with Sgt Petreko at the canyon mouth."

"Roger that sir."

Though unheard by the brotherhood soldiers, his exchange did not go completely unnoticed by the paladin in command of the patrol.

Graves raised his weapon with deadly intent and repeated his earlier demand, "You will submit now or I will strip that fancy armor off your corpse."

"No." Marco murmured, just loud enough to be heard.

Three red lines of laser fire erupted from the paladin's weapon, his attack joined in by the rest of his patrol after a moment's hesitation.

Alarms blared in his hardskin as the lasers impacted and heated the nano-forged steel. He jerked his gauss rifle up and sent hypersonic death into the paladin, the 8mm steel spikes punching holes into his power armor.

The paladin jerked back, his surprised cry cut short as his lungs began to fill with blood. He fell to the dirt with a thud, vomiting up blood into his helmet as he jerked in agony.

The other brotherhood soldiers continued to rain red lines of heat into Marco as he tried to fall back into some kind of cover, the wireframe status indicator of his armor swiftly going from a healthy green to a pale yellow and finally to a warning amber.

His scream of defiance was torn from his lungs by an invisible fist reaching with spiked fingers which ravaged his throat. His warcry became a feral thing of its own, transforming the disciplined soldier into a rough unintelligible demon. His gauss rifle chattered on full auto, the stream of brass raining against his armor punctuating his fury as the magazine was swiftly depleted.

Ramirez reached to crunch another magazine home just as a concentrated burst of laser fire separated his right arm at the elbow, the armored limb flying away in a spray of boiling blood.

An errant laser burned a hole through his visor, the coherent beam losing just enough focus to bathe his entire face in an agonizing wash of heat. This was a pain that he had never felt before; it ignited every nerve in his melting face and sent electrochemical torture straight into his brain. It proved too much and in its attempt to save itself, his brain sent the signals that would put his body into shock and quiet the screaming nerves.

He fell strengthless to the dirt. His rifle clattering to the ground beside him as his pupils widened and his heart slowed its beat.

The sound of Marco's flatline on her squad display sent Petreko and the rest of the squad into a paroxysm of rage. Even Griff, normally unflappable, became momentarily unhinged at the unprovoked attack on one of his men.

Their discipline was the first casualty as the marines abandoned their tasks and turned their thoughts to righteous vengeance. Griff came over the comm, his voice hard as he reminded them of their duty. His calm words and promise of justice allayed them somewhat. He redirected Petreko and Vasquez from vengeance to recovering Ramirez, urging them to focus their attention on retrieving their comrade.

West screamed in frustration as he pounded his fists bloody on his hardskin, the still un-repaired suit standing inert and useless on a rack inside the command center. He too was eventually calmed by Griff's words, the captain's promise that they would get their man back, and seek justice against those that had so injured them balming the fire in his heart.

The surviving two brotherhood paladins, including the one who had urged diplomacy hung their heads at the waste. Two experienced paladins had fallen against the lone corporal and their armor would be weeks at the forges being repaired. They shared the disquieting feeling that they had kicked a sleeping giant.

They left the corporal alone and took up the bodies of their fallen comrades. With a final look at the scene of the short and terrible battle they took their leave and headed back to their bunker, intent to warn the Elder of what had transpired.


	9. Chapter 8: Vengeance

**Chapter 8**

 **Vengeance**

" _If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?"_

 _~William Shakespeare_

Katya dropped to her knees at her friend's side, her shock at seeing Marco in this state stealing the strength from her legs.

The normally stoic woman held back tears as she leaned forward and placed a hand gingerly on his armored chest, daring to look at the ruin of his face through the melted visor.

She was only peripherally aware of Iara Vasquez opposite her, the emotional woman trembling with the cocktail of rage and grief flooding her veins.

As she looked down at the man who had served with her for years, the memory of the first time they had met came unbidden to her mind.

 **Years ago…**

A broken force remained on Char Aleph, the shattered remnants of the once mighty UED expeditionary force forsaken on the blood soaked battleground as the remainder of the fleet was allowed to flee back to Earth.

Then corporal Petreko remembered looking up at the massive battlecruisers ponderously peeling away from the field, none of them bereft of horrendous scars. Plasma and atmosphere jetted in uneven spurts from every one of them, even Admiral DuGalle's flagship didn't escape unscathed.

The few ground forces still alive felt hope lift away on blue jets as the fleet pulled away, leaving the survivors to their fate.

That hope was rekindled as a formation of dropships broke through the hazy fog of war and began to land all around them.

Katya, her relief so palpable that it fueled a snarky comment as she approached the first dropshop, let her scathing remark die in her throat as blue armored marines and medics disembarked.

The visor hissed open to reveal the sad face of the young private who had approached her unit, his youth denied by the exhaustion of the battle adding years to the Latin man's face.

He extended a hand to help her to her feet and said, "Private Ramirez, Raynor's Raiders. We're your ride."

The UED hadn't sent a rescue team at all… instead, Raynor's forces, though just as mauled as the UED force, had sent what they could to carry all the survivors to safety.

The harrowing journey through the zerg lines jostled the passengers of the drop ship. Dominion, UED and Raider forces quietly ignoring the colors of their fellow rescues and reveling in their shared survival.

 **Present day…**

Her visor hissed open, freeing locks of her platinum hair to hang loose from her head and waft gently in the early evening breeze. Ice blue eyes glistened with unreleased tears as they regarded her fallen comrade, her pale features taking on a ruddy hue as the sunset bathed the valley in its red glow.

Iara seethed with barely contained emotions. Hot blooded by nature, her rancor was unabated by the solemnity of the occasion. Her limbs trembled with the adrenaline pumping through her system while she quietly swore vengeance on the unknowns who took the life of the very best of them.

She and Marco had grown up together, their parents scratching a living on Mar Sara first under the uncaring, corrupt and greedy old families of Tarsonis and then, when they resettled the orange rock after the Brood War, under the over-zealous attentions of so-called, 'Emperor of the Terran Dominion, the bastard Arcturus Mengsk.'

They had both watched their parents toil to make a living for their children in the unforgiving dust of the Mar Saran landscape. Their lives and essence utterly spent unto ruin on that gods-forsaken world.

When Raynor had come with his small force of raiders, he did much more than help them smash a Dominion outpost. He forged a new hope from the ashes of their parent's demise. A large number of the young colonists elected to sign on with the Raiders and from that union, forged a new beginning that they could be proud of.

Marco and Iara fought together to rescue the colonists of Agria, their spirits lifted by the purity of their cause. They laughed insanely against the odds as they protected refugees on the embattled world of Meinhoff. Together and indomitable, they faced the mighty Dominion around the UNN studio on Korhal itself.

Through it all and more, their lifelong bond grew only stronger. Marco held her during the one time she allowed herself to cry on the anniversary of her daddy's death. His strong arms held firm against her anger strengthened sobs as she raged against the unconcerned universe.

She loved him. There was no worse or better explanation that those three words. Even before they shared a bunk under the celebratory haze of alcoholic fanfare after the Raider's victory on Char. It seemed as though that singular event broke the dam of their restraint and though little else changed about their relationship, it brought a level of intimacy that brought a sense of comfort to the cold metal decks of the Hyperion. A sense of home beyond what she had ever known.

And now some fucks had taken that away from her. This same shit eating universe had callously looked the other way while these backwards pendejos took her dearest friend away from her. Oh they were going to fucking pay.

She was shaken from her vengeful fantasies by a startled gasp from the normally unflappable Sgt Petreko. Confused, she looked up at her squad leader and then followed the shocked woman's gaze back down to Marco.

"What…" her question died on her lips as she felt more than heard the shuddering breath that escaped Ramirez's ravaged face. A low pain filled moan whistled past charred lips as his body gently rocked beneath her hand.

Life began to stir beneath them as his armored form slowly increased the tempo and urgency of its movement. His lips opened with an audible rip of tearing flesh as a pained howl tore itself from his throat.

Katya and Iara both felt their hearts heave at the most succinct and profound expression of agony either of them had ever witnessed.

Sgt Petreko's training finally kicked in as she injected the poor man with a dose of morphine with her right as she activated her comm bead with her left.

"Commander! Corporal Ramirez is alive! He needs medical attention now!"

* * *

 **Near Trading Post 188…**

The urgent summons sounded so loud in his ear that Captain Johnson had to tear it loose before it deafened him. Holding it away from his ear, he could still clearly hear Sgt Petreko frantically calling him. Normally, the comm systems compensated for noise and adjusted itself accordingly. There must be some kind of malfunction with his kit.

The courier cocked his head, as even standing some distance away, he had heard the clarion call, "Commander? I thought you were a captain?"

Griff breathed with exasperation as he hurriedly explained, "The designated leader of all forces within a theatre of operations is called, 'Commander' regardless of their actual rank."

The courier merely huffed in acknowledgement and stayed silent out of respect for the dark look on Griff's face.

A short woman wearing a drab brown hood and bulky tan colored clothing approached as she noticed the commotion, her questioning gaze turning toward the courier who could only shrug in acknowledgement.

"Petreko, Griff. I read that Ramirez is alive. How copy?"

"Roger that, Ramirez is alive but in bad shape."

"My god…" Griff murmured, "Don't waste any time, get him into the med bay at the command center. We are on our way now with Bourgeois."

Griff glanced at the medic to ensure that the French woman had heard him. The brunette nodded briskly and started off at a trot to the south without a word.

The captain turned his attention to the courier and his friend, presumably 'Veronica'.

"I'm sorry, introductions will have to wait, one of my men was ambushed by a patrol wearing some form of full body armor and bearing laser and plasma weaponry. He is badly hurt and we need to get our medic," he jerked his thumb in the direction of the swiftly retreating form of Sophia Bourgeois, "back to our base camp to attend to him."

He didn't wait for any response before he too turned and headed out in the same direction as the young warrant officer. Sharon fell in beside him, chewing her lip nervously.

Paul looked at Veronica questioningly, noting the worried expression on the normally cheery woman's face.

Veronica shook her head unconvincingly, which made the courier think that their new friends may have run afoul of some less sociable members of Veronica's family.

"We'll figure this out, I am sure it was some kind of mistake." Paul reassured the woman, patting her on the shoulder even as he made to follow the Terrans.

Veronica stopped him short for a moment when she murmured, "God, I hope so" before rushing to catch up with the jogging troupe.

* * *

 **Early morning, at the Bison Steve in Primm…**

Jacky woke up with a major crick in her neck. She stretched languidly, finishing with a high pitched squeak before regretfully picking her stiff body up off the floor.

She rubbed her eyes and stifled a yawn as she stuffed her things into her pack, kicking aside the overly curious immature radroach.

The large room was host to a small number of people who were also waking to the sounds and smell of the enterprising Primm resident's cooking; who had turned the Bison Steve into a hotel of sorts. For a handful of caps you got a mattress in the main room for the night and a slab from the brahmin roasting over an impressive spit.

Though it filled the room with eye stinging smoke, the accompanying smell of roasting meat was a welcome one. Especially to her rumbling stomach, who was currently and loudly made its displeasure at being empty known.

Jacky offered the cook a noncommittal grunt as he handed her a tin plate with a generous cut of Brahmin steak and a coffee mug half full of something that looked suspiciously like coffee but smelled more like the water he washed his socks in.

Regardless of the quality of the meal, Jacky sat cross legged in front of fire and tore into both with gusto, the scalding coffee shocking her into wakefulness with its heat more than with any caffeine it may have had. The steak though was surprisingly good, she had to restrain from licking the clear grease from the fatty cut when she had finished with the large portion.

She saluted the cook with her fork. The man smiled back gratefully with all 5 of his remaining teeth before returning to his work of carving the meat for the other patrons.

Returning the tin plate to the busy cook, she picked up her pack and made her way out of the Bison Steve and to the office of the Mojave Express.

"Morning, youngster." Johnson Nash greeted, as soon as she entered his shop, "Sorry bout being short with ya yesterday, Ruby and I got into a row and I was in no fit state to entertain."

Jacky smiled at the old man, his easy demeanor putting her at ease.

"Oh it's alright. Got a little adventure and a few extra caps out of it."

"Yeah, I heard what happened over at Vicki and Vance's. Thought that sorta thing would stop happenin now that the NCR's in charge. Just goes to show, wasteland is always full of folk looking to take something that don't belong to em." Mr. Nash jawed thoughtfully, "Anyway, heard tell you had a delivery for me?"

"Yeah, Chet from Good Springs wanted to see this delivered here." Jacky replied, as she handed over the heavy package.

Johnson hefted it and eyed it warily before grunting with a satisfactory air at his impromptu inspection.

He set the package aside and smiled at Jacky, "Thanks, young miss. Am glad to get this so soon. Honestly wasn't expecting to see this for a week or more."

He counted out some caps, paused as he seemed to mull something over in his head, then added a few more to the modest pile.

"Here you go miss, with a few extra for getting it here so fast."

Jacky swept the caps up and let them trickle into her pocket without counting them, though her practiced hand put it at around 50 caps, not bad for a day's work.

"I'm looking to sign up as a full time courier." Jacky stated.

"Is that so? Well, you seem to have the knack for it, and we are running low on couriers nowadays. Hell, why not? Let me get some paperwork together and we'll get you set up on your new career choice."

A short time later, Jacky walked out of the Mojave Express office with a new package to deliver to Novac and a sense of satisfaction at having a purpose of sorts, completely unaware of the stealthed spectre watching from a nearby rooftop.

* * *

The spongy creep squelched beneath his armored boots as he jogged ahead of his squad. Tyler, cumbersome in his Marauder suit lumbered beside him on the left and WO Bourgeois stepped lightly on his right, the normally pristine white armor already spattered with the ichor of the zerglings they had fought through.

A Dominion drop pod had made planetfall not far from the Raider's base and Ramirez was tasked to find them and bring them behind their defenses. They ran north from the western defenses, their approach covered by the Crucio siege tank stationed just behind the bunker guarding that approach.

A small group of red armored marines milled about ahead of them, dazed from the impact and subsequent destruction of their drop pod. They seemed to perk up when they caught sight of the squad of Raiders.

"Raynor's Raiders! Am I glad to see you boys! But… where's General Warfield?" A marine with sergeant stripes on his armor announced as they came upon the group.

Raynor's voice cut in over the comm, "I'm assuming command, you men fall in with us and we'll see about getting to your general."

"Yes sir!" the Dominion troops proclaimed; the relief palpable in their voices.

Any celebration at meeting allies on this hellish world were stymied by the arrival of several hydralisks, their presence foretold by the whistling armored piercing spines suddenly filling the air around them.

A marine in red fell to the ground with a wet yell as he took the worst of the barrage, his choking gurgles quickly silencing as he bled out from a dozen puncture wounds. The rest of the squad formed a firing line, the staccato rhythm of their C-14 rifles punctuated by the throaty chunk of Punisher grenade launchers adding their noise to the din. One by one, the hydralisks burst under the firepower.

Bourgeois smiled lightly at Ramirez as she finished patching up his lacerations, the squad leader nodding his thanks as he gestured for the men to fall in and head back south.

The big man wasn't much for words, letting his actions speak for him, a philosophy that had paid off with his recent promotion to Corporal. The other members of his squad were bolstered by his quiet strength and were one of the more disciplined raider squads under Raynor's command.

She fell in with the rest of the men as they headed for the dubious safety of the camp, feeding off of the surge of hope she felt emanating from their Dominion rescues and daring to have some herself. She felt safe in the big marine's shadow, and knew that if they were to have a chance; it would rely on the bravery of men like Corporal Ramirez to make it happen.

* * *

 **Somewhere north of Bonnie Springs…**

The nightmarish memory of fang and claw lit by muzzle flashes faded from her mind and was replaced by the drab brown landscape of the Mojave wasteland.

Sophia had felt her heart lurch when she heard that Ramirez had been hurt. He had weathered the storm on Char practically unscathed despite everything the Queen of Blades threw at them. To have fallen now seemed a bitter irony.

A significant part of the bedrock of her calm belief that they would survive this ordeal cracked as she realized how much she had come to rely on the seemingly indomitable will of the Corporal. His quiet assurance helped make her world a safer place and she knew that she was not alone in that belief.

Fear began to creep in with the insidious tendrils of doubt at the irrational thought that their ability to overcome any odds was so tightly bound to the stoicism of one man.

She took measure of the grim and determined look of the Commander, his pounding strides finding resonance with the thunder of her heart beats. She mentally shook away her doubts as she followed the CO's example, finding a measure of solace in the pursuit of the task before them.

* * *

 **Terran Command Center…**

Iara wrestled with Marco's flailing form as she and the sergeant tried unsuccessfully to get the critically injured man onto the examination table. His anguished moans were soft in contrast with the violence of his thrashing body.

"Fuck this, just try and hold him!" Petreko hissed through gritted teeth.

"The hell does it look like I'm doing, bruja?" Iara shouted back, her latino blood afire.

"Just do it!" Katya bristled, as she tore open a red case marked with a white cross.

"Hold him, hold him!"

Vasquez held her tongue this time, and surged forward to knock the much bigger man onto his back. She threw herself on top of him, almost as if to release her passion in a more intimate way. She held him down as best as she could while Sgt Petreko gripped the top of his melted visor and jabbed an auto-injector into Marco's neck.

It was pure luck that the needle found its mark in his jugular, pumping chemical painkillers directly into his bloodstream. He spasmed once more before the nepenthe doused the fire lighting his nerves and finally allowed him to relax with a profound sigh.

Vasquez waited a moment before rolling off her friend, her mood tempering somewhat at his even breaths.

Now that he had ceased struggling, the two women had a much easier time lifting his massive form onto the thick metal bunk, the servos in their power armor whining as they tried to be as gentle as they could.

Once he was in place, Iara let the strength leave her legs and crashed onto the deck of the medical bay. She sat there dejectedly, her eyes on Marco but her sight far far away.

She was shaking from her reverie by the shadow of Sgt Petreko looming over her. She prepared herself for the rebuke from the sergeant and was startled when the pale woman sank down beside her instead.

"All we can do now is wait."

Vasquez had no response to that and instead concentrated on stilling the tremble in her limbs.

The two sat in uncomfortable silence, unaware of the small group of concerned people gathered behind the glass of the observation window.

 **Several hours later…**

Sweat beaded on Sophia's brow despite the cool air cycling through the scrubbers in the medical bay. She leaned forward against the bank of monitors and let out the breath that seemed trapped in her lungs for the last hour.

She had ignored the questioning looks and the murmurs from the gallery just outside the medical bay, instead focusing her full attention on the still form of Ramirez on the middle exam table.

There was no surgical wing here; the standard command center's medical ward was a simple affair with three beds, a small office and a storage room for medical supplies. Despite the limitations offered by the facility, she was silently grateful that she had had this much to work with. If Marco had gotten hurt the day before… No, best not to think on that.

As it was, Ramirez, finally divested of his armor, was resting peacefully while medical monitors chirped and beeped in tandem with his vital signs.

She had spent the bulk of the last two hours removing the worst damage from his skull while juggling the cocktail of chemical stimulants meant to keep him alive during surgery. The medical nanites had then been put to work to rebuild his face, the green stream of energy bathing him in a sickly aura.

He was considerably less pretty now, the limitations of the facility meant that he would bear scars for the rest of his life. But as the Commander gently reminded her, at least he was alive to rue the scars.

Petreko, Vasquez and West hadn't left the corporal's side, only grudgingly stepping back at her terse command and then only retreating enough for her to move around him freely.

The Commander had stood vigil for a time but had to set aside his personal feelings to address the catalyst for the events, namely the identity of the perpetrators of the attack. He was speaking with the courier and his friend Veronica on the command deck.

The engineers had stopped in, their trainees in tow, but couldn't stay long as the commander had insisted that they continue preparations to engage the Atlas boosters and move the command center to the NCRCF.

She sank into the chair of her small office and not for the last time wished for a steaming cup of caffeine. She massaged the bridge of her nose to ease the headache building there.

"Sorry what?" She was shaken from her moment of solipsism by the nervous young woman standing opposite her. She looked up at her and wracked her brain trying to remember the girl's name.

"I'm Nadia, I was told to talk to you about being of use around here."

Sophia was grateful that she wouldn't appear rude by forgetting the woman's name as she introduced herself again. "Sorry Nadia, you were with the group that Specialist Ashur brought in, right?"

"Yes ma'am. We wanted to make ourselves useful, we're so grateful for everything you all have done for us. I… I don't want to go back out there, especially after seeing what you have here." The woman gestured around her, fear at being rejected coloring her words.

"Lieutenant Weyland heard that I had some medical training and sent me down here, I've just been staying out of the way until now."

"Are you a nurse or doctor?" Sophia asked, doubtful that whatever passed for formal medical training here was anything remotely like her own.

"No ma'am, before we were captured, I picked up a few things from the Followers."

"The who?" Sophia asked.

"Sorry, the Followers of the Apocalypse, they're a group of pacifists; doctors and scientists who devote their time to making the wasteland a better place through free medical care and research. I had learned some from a group of them and was invited to go to their main camp in New Vegas at the Old Mormon Fort when… well, you know."

Most of what the woman told her may as well have been in a foreign language, but Sophia fought down her irritation knowing that it mostly stemmed from her worry for Marco and had nothing to do with Nadia.

Sophia got up from her desk and came around to get a better look at the young woman. Lack of proper nutrition had left the woman a thin waif of a girl, making her appear much younger than she probably was. She had a gentle look about her, accentuated by her long soft brown hair and brown eyes that held a deep and sincere sympathy. Her skin was browned by the sun and aside from a few spots of sunburn, appeared healthy enough.

She nodded in approval and forced a smile for Nadia, taking the young woman's hand and leading her back out into the main medical bay. She began to question her, to gauge how much she knew about medicine, shifting easily into a mentoring role and appreciative of the opportunity to distract herself from the still form of her recent patient.

* * *

 **On the Command deck…**

Griff paced, clearly agitated despite the welcome news that Ramirez would pull through. He had divided up his scant forces and one of his men was hurt for it. He had underestimated the threat they faced and someone else paid the price for his arrogance.

He only half listened to Paul's friend Veronica as she nervously tried to dispel the tension with her joking demeanor. She had explained that she was a member of a group called 'The Brotherhood of Steel', a paramilitary organization born from the ashes of the Old world and devoted to reclaiming technology, ostensibly to safeguard their fellow man.

Griff bristled at the audacity of a group, who thought that they were entitled to take technology, despite who had it, and hid behind an unyielding Codex to justify their theft. He was a Raider through and through. A man devoted to protecting the rights of people to live free. The beliefs held by these 'Brotherhood' types were thinly veiled by their mandate to protect humanity from their own sins. It sounded too much like Arcturus's Dominion for it to sit at all well with the Raider's sense of justice.

He had to temper his immediate dislike of the group with the knowledge that he knew far too little of this world to pass judgments. He couldn't blame an entire faction for the actions of a small group. If Veronica was any indication, then there were good people in the Brotherhood.

"I'll do it." He announced, interrupting Veronica's plea that he meet with this 'Elder McNamara.'

"Oh… well, that's good… we can…"

Griff cut off whatever she was about to say with a hard look.

"But I will do so from a position of strength. Your Elder must be made to understand that I do not take the unprovoked assault on my people lightly and that I mean business when I say that any further acts of aggression will be met with overwhelming force."

He strode away from her and the courier, leaving them to absorb his statement and went to stand in front of his wife.

Sharon looked at him knowingly, her sympathetic eyes gazing up at his face as she reached for him.

He embraced her gratefully, and spoke softly into her ear.

"I have to get my people home. All of us."

Sharon nodded into his shoulder, gripping him tighter to reassure him.

"There aren't enough of us. Ashur did well to bring those people here and he assures me that they are sincere in their desire to help us. I had him scan the former prisoners too and he tells me that they are trustworthy. We can use them. Once we move the command center to the old prison we can use the materials there to construct a barracks, supply depots and an engineering bay to train and equip our recruits. We still haven't found a source of vespene but we still have the schematics for the vulture bikes in our database. That can give us the edge we need to deal with whatever threats are out there. We need to be able to operate without fear of attack if we're going to find a way to get home."

Griff stepped back from Sharon and turned to face Veronica and Paul. They regarded him quietly as he announced, "We are going to prepare; then we will deal with the Brotherhood. They either make this right or nothing on this world will save them from our vengeance."

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry for the long hiatus, it's been quite a busy time for me and my family. It's not really any less busy now, but I've made it one of my priorities to devote some time each day to write a few hundred words and progress the story.**

 **Here is a little index to help keep track of who we are dealing with.**

 **Terrans:**

 **Captain Griff Johnson, Commander.**

 **Sharon Griffin, civilian science officer and the commander's wife**

 **Lieutenant Andrea Weyland, pilot**

 **Warrant Officer Sophia Bourgeois, medic**

 **Dominic Li and Luca Giovanni, engineers and SCV operators**

 **Specialist Ashur Shalev, spectre operative**

 **Sergeant Katya Petreko, squad leader**

 **Corporal Marco Ramirez, fire team leader**

 **PFC Iara Vasquez, infantry**

 **Pvt Nathan West, infantry**

 **Mojave residents:**

 **Paul Maxson, Courier six**

 **Jacqueline 'Jacky' Summers, former Vault resident, former Viper, now Courier with Mojave Express**

 **Meyers, former sheriff (slated for marine training)**

 **Paul Hannigan, former NCR medic (slated for medic training)**

 **Scott, former slave (SCV training)**

 **Louise, Scott's wife (Staff training)**

 **Nadia, former slave (medic training)**

 **3 unnamed former NCRCF prisoners (marine training)**

 **3 unnamed children**


	10. Chapter 9: Terra Rising

**Chapter 9**

 **Terra Rising**

" _Let the future tell the truth, and evaluate each one according to his work and accomplishments. The present is theirs; the future, for which I have really worked, is mine."_

~Nikola Tesla

* * *

"Touch down in 3… 2… 1…"

Louise's nerves were frayed like loose cables dancing with sparks. She somehow managed to maintain a calm exterior despite the fact that she was essentially landing several hundred tons worth of building.

The dull thud and the wave of dust thrown out by the command center's landing sent a palpable sense of relief flowing through her. The metal bulkheads groaned in protest as they settled down and back up before locking in place.

Lieutenant Weyland threw a thumbs up her way and smiled before turning her attention back to the controls as the cargo bay doors opened below with a clang.

She still could not fathom how she had gone from a Legion slave to a uniformed member of the Raiders in just a few short days. Every aspect of this new life felt like a dream that she kept expecting to wake up from.

She had owned a single Brahmin skin outfit her entire adult life, constantly repairing and patching the threadbare garment. Every available cap she and her husband earned went to keeping their children clothed and fed. Now she wore such finery as she had never imagined. She ran a hand over the thick rich material of the blue black coat she wore, the brass buttons shining against the red epaulets. Her once leather wrapped feet were now invisibly ensconced within thick leather boots that gleamed with polish.

Louise smiled as the Commander congratulated the crew on their success and gave orders for the security detachment and SCV crews to roll out. Her smile widened as she heard her husband's enthusiastic reply and leaned up from her console to catch a glimpse of him through the large observation port.

She could almost swear that she saw him wave back at her from inside the SCV he drove, but that was likely wishful thinking. It was impossible to tell which of the 3 SCVs her husband was driving, let alone tell if he was waving at her.

She hurriedly sat down and began to monitor the SCVs as they worked from her console at the muffled cough from the command dais.

Captain Griff cleared his throat, amused at the woman's excitement. He was pleased with how quickly the wastelanders had adapted to the new paradigm, which opened new strategic avenues in his mind. Though a great deal of their limited experience thus far only affirmed that they were strangers in a strange land, the people here were capable of learning and adapting to Terran technology with as much alacrity as anyone back home.

With Ashur's ability to 'read' people, they could recruit members of the local populace to bolster their numbers. It would be a mutually beneficial arrangement, with the added manpower, their ability to find a way home went from being a distant dream to a chance at true success. For the wastelanders, the technological advances they could offer would provide an exponential increase in their quality of life.

The wheels were turning in his head as he observed the SCVs already busy at work processing the scrap material in the compound. He did reserve some trepidation at the knowledge that he was effectively annexing a sovereign power's territory but knew that in order to have any chance at all surviving this ordeal, he would have to venture into almost piratical activity. He glanced at his wife, who stood over Louise's shoulder and offered guidance to the young woman as she worked. He would need his wife's moral compass more than ever to ensure that he did not cross the boundary into true piracy.

* * *

His fusion cutter made short work of the metal stanchions of the watchtower closest to the command center's processing bay. Satisfied at the pile of rusted steel he had collected, Luca used the hydraulic clamp of his SCV to hoist the several hundred pounds of material and moved to deposit it in the command center's refinery. He looked over to where Scott, their newest recruit, was working and noted with satisfaction that the sharp local was using the SCV's legs to scoop loose material into a metal mining cart before lifting the cart and dumping its contents onto the conveyor.

Dominic attached tow cables to the base of another tower, having cut the legs on the opposite end to pull the heap of metal over. He whistled happily as he worked, little else could bolster the engineer's mood quite like tearing apart dilapidated structures like these to forge new material. As an added bonus, the constant hammering, cutting and grinding noises issuing from the trio of SCVs out in the yard effectively drowned out Pvt. West's constant yammering about his hardskin.

The young marine's armor had taken an impressive amount of damage from the small arms fire he waded into in taking this compound and he had taken it upon himself to message the engineers every few minutes to ask when it would be repaired. Dominic could empathize with the young marine, knowing how he would feel if his SCV was broken and fallow. Though he was the more patient of the two, even he had his limits. Luca hadn't withstood much of Nathan's pestering before promising the young private that he would soon learn how it would feel to have a spanner jammed up his tailpipe. Luca was rewarded from his visceral description by being actively avoided by the recalcitrant marine.

110.0

Dominic noted the mineral count on his HUD and knew that the Commander would be pleased by their progress. Any minute now, the new staff officer up in the command center would direct one of them to begin construction of the modified supply depot. The 3 SCV operators had engineered a variation on the traditional supply depot. The new design would recycle the hydrocarbon byproduct of their scrap operations. With the material the depot could turn it into basic sundries using its nano-forge, giving the group a nearly constant stream of fresh supplies.

He smirked a little with a self-satisfied air at the wonder the wastelanders had displayed with audible gasps when they first entered the command center. Like a supply depot, the command center had a limited capability of providing logistical support to its personnel. Simple items like clothing, sundries and small arms were easily produced by the mammoth structure, provided it had sufficient power and minimal resources. The wastelanders and convicts had quickly divested themselves of their rags and now wore a variety of the uniforms used by the Raiders.

Their first meal in the cramped mess hall of the command center was a cause of celebration for them, a perspective he had trouble empathizing with as he muscled the reconstituted meat loaf past his gag reflex. But for the locals, radiation free food that actually had taste was a whole new experience for them. Eating anything at all was a survival tactics, anything even remotely edible finding its way into their gullets regardless of its nutritional value. He was presented with a sample of their fare, a 200 year old box of Salisbury steak that had slid out of its box as a brown slab. He took a tentative bite and regretted it immediately, spitting what amounted to sawdust from him mouth to the good natured laughter of the wastelanders.

The commander's wife, Sharon, had been concerned at the state of malnutrition, particularly among the children. She had already supplemented their diets with a daily regimen of vitamins and caloric supplements. He and Luca had found the plans for the hydroponics bay in the adjutant's memory banks much to her delight. Though it was a low priority until security could be established she talked the commander into putting it in the queue.

Not for the first time, he looked up at the cloud speckled sky and hoped that their involvement wouldn't jeopardize their chances at making it back home.

* * *

" _It's me again, Mr. New Vegas, reminding you that you're nobody 'til somebody loves you. And that somebody is me. I love you."_

" _Scavengers report hulking individuals moving around Hidden Valley after dusk, but have been unable to identify them due to low visibility."_

The black of night blanketed the Mojave in its bejeweled veil. A beautiful sight that was lost on Ashur as he stepped through an opening in a forlorn and rusted chain link fence into the howling face of sand blasting wind. Frustration spiked through him as he realized that his optic enhancers were only just able to cut through the interference. It was at times like these that Ashur was grateful for the environmental suit that the spectres wore during field operations as he crouched invisibly while the particles scoured the surface of his armor.

The commander had asked him to track down the patrol that had attacked Ramirez earlier that day. Whoever they were, they wore heavy power armor that made following their tracks child's play. It wasn't until he followed those tracks into this valley that he began to experience some difficulty.

He knew that the localized sandstorm was not a natural phenomenon. Even through the howling of the fierce wind and the chattering of the numerous scorpions that made this area their home could not drown out the high powered whine of turbo fans stirring the dust and air into a man-made maelstrom.

His instruments, linked to the Adjutant back at the command center, had analyzed the composition of the dust and found that it was laced with aluminum and various silicates, effectively making the dust a form of signal scattering chaff. Thankfully the camouflage system was built with the inferior detection capabilities of this world in mind, and did not completely hamper the wide-spectrum scanning capability of Terran equipment. Once the command center was upgraded, they could use the powerful scanning array to get an almost unfettered picture of this area.

Shalev's professionalism and devotion to the Raiders would not let him put anything less than his best effort at the task given to him by Captain Johnson, but he could not help but be anxious to return to his self-appointed role as guardian over the young woman, Jacky.

He had watched over her for several days and had noted that there was more potential in a future relationship than he had initially thought. From her thoughts he had gleaned images of a vault full of young people yoked to the tyranny of a despotic idealogy enforced by a mysterious figure known as the sandman.

A plan had formed in his mind to take the young psychic under his wing and to eventually train her as a ghost. Making her a spectre like him was not possible given the lack of terrazine and jorium, to say nothing of the complete absence of the facilities necessary to refine those materials. But ghost training required nothing more than the individual's inherent psychic ability and a devoted mentor.

Once that was complete, he could then test the new ghost with her first assignment, to liberate the other residents of her former home and bring them under the Terran's fold. The mutual benefit was obvious, the Terrans would receive a pool of young and intelligent personnel and the vault dwellers would gain freedom from their prison.

Ashur checked his chronometer, noting that it was early morning when anomalous readings appeared on his HUD. Four distinct heat signatures had popped into view and were leaving one of the bunkers heading north east in a patrol pattern. Scrolling though the various modes offered by his optic enhancers, he was able to achieve a visual on the figures. They appeared to wear some kind of metal full body armor. From the energy readings he was receiving, each of them was powered by a small fusion reactor.

He cataloged the readings and sent them in an encrypted data burst back to the commander, hoping that the scanning capability of his quarry would not be sufficient in intercepting or even detecting the transmission. He observed the patrol until they left his field of vision, noting that they did not seem to react in the slightest to indicate that they had indeed picked up the signal.

Ashur sighed deeply, breathing in a lungful of terrazine gas as he awaited the Captain's response. He dampened the sense of excitement he felt when the commander's voice came over the comm and ordered him to deploy sensor buoys in the area and then quit the valley. It meant that he could resume his guardianship over Jacky sooner than he had hoped and went to work deploying the devices immediately.

* * *

"We need to talk." Paul's voice was soft and solemn as he and Veronica travelled to Red Rock Canyon. It was easy to understand the commander's reticence at simply letting them go on their way after what had happened to his man, which made it harder to convince him of the necessity of their trip. The strained man finally acquiesced when Veronica had pleaded with him to let her meet with the Elder first, to soften their eventual confrontation and gather information.

The meeting went largely as she thought it would, the elder's exasperation with her not mitigated in the slightest by the circumstances. That he so readily accepted the potential loss of irreplaceable paladins was chilling to her. Didn't he realize that less than 200 people couldn't possibly continue in isolation? Her one consolation came from the Courier's softly spoken demand that Elder McNamara at least consider what they were telling him and to be open to a diplomatic tie with the Terrans. Her surprise was tangible and profound, the courier having had to gently tap her chin to make her realize her jaw hung open.

The quiet nod from the elder, both acceptance and a dismissal, was the closest to an agreement that she had ever achieved with the stubborn man. She was almost jubilant over it, enough to bury her worry for the time being and respond to Maxson's request with her typical playful flippancy.

"This better not be about the meaning of life." Veronica answered snidely.

"I have to ask you something, seriously."

"Ooo, do I get a prize if I answer right?" She quipped.

Veronica's small smile evaporated as she turned to face the courier and saw the grim expression on his face. Her anxiety over the situation worming its way back to the forefront.

"Sorry about that. Just because I love them doesn't mean some of them aren't assholes. I'm just trying to put the dots together you know? It's not hard for me to see one of them doing exactly as those Terran friends of yours described. I just don't want to believe that someone really pissed on a chance to make a friend that could really help us out and brought us on the brink of another war."

The words came out in a jumbled rush, as if they had been fighting to escape ever since they had gotten the news that a Brotherhood patrol had ambushed and nearly killed one of the Terrans.

"Besides, there is still the very slim chance that it wasn't us." Veronica stated, though she didn't sound convinced.

"Yeah, there are lots of people roaming about in power armor and laser weaponry." The coutier replied sardonically.

Veronica just shook her head, her shoulders slumping in defeat as she came to a halt and stared intently at her feet.

"It's one of the main reasons why I'm out foraging all the time. One too many arguments with the Elder, or anyone else that wasn't smart enough to turn and run as soon as I opened my mouth about it."

Veronica looked up at the courier with an almost pleading expression on her face, her lips stuck out in a pout that he would have called comically childish were it not for the seriousness of the circumstance.

"We're dying. I don't know how to make him, them, anyone see it. For some of us to go and do something like this… It's one thing to explore ruins or have stuff turned over from travelers who don't know what they have… but to resort to brute force against an unknown… it's tragic and it's almost sinfully stupid."

Paul pulled the young woman into a friendly hug, "Look, we'll find a diplomatic solution to this. Between the two of us, we'll make the Elder see reason. There may be a silver lining to this attack. Its proof that hiding away from the world may have been right after Helios One, but it definitely isn't now."

"If only you were a leggy brunette," Veronica sighed, "I can almost believe you could convince Caesar to give up the dam and go into the Snack cake business…. Hrmmm, snack cakes."

Paul laughed at her weak joke, though obviously fake, Veronica appreciated the pretense and allowed the slight brevity to lighten her mood.

"You never did say, where are we going?"

"Since we're fairly close, thought I'd pop in and see the Great Khans. Now that I've convinced Melissa Lewis that the Legion is no good, I'm hoping that I can sway Regis and Papa Khan to break ties with Caesar."

"To join up with House?"

"No... I've thought about it long and hard."

Veronica began giggling at that, the courier glancing at her with a look that spoke of his impatience with her lack of maturity. Which only made her laugh harder.

Once the scribe collected herself he continued, "I think the Khans should go their own way. Between the Legion, House and the NCR there really is no place for them. Maybe north?"

"I have to hand it to you, you give a lot of leeway for a tribe of glorified murderers."

"Granted, but they have a code. They may be brutal, and not ones to shy away from raider-like activities, but you can actually talk to them. They don't murder you on sight or try to rape you immediately. I think Bitter Springs, as tragic as that was, is a catalyst for them to evolve into something... better.

"Wow, how that's actually a pretty noble sentiment. You surprise me."

"Speaking of surprises, I think this way will make a good shortcut."

They ambled off the road, the Yangtze Memorial silently witness to their detour. If it could, it'd laugh at the grave mistake they were making.

* * *

"Hold it right there, young lady." The grizzled NCR trooper called out, as the rest of the patrol spread out in a semicircle along the highway.

Jacky paused mid-whistle, the jaunty tune dying in her throat at her surprise that the approaching NCR patrol would bother with her.

Nervousness colored her response as she replied, "Is there a problem?"

"No, no problems." The elder reassured her, smiling amiably. "We've gotten reports of increased legion activity and we have to randomly check travelers for legion spies."

Jacky breathed a sigh of relief and chuckled at the older man's explanation.

"Oh well, you had better watch out, big legion spy girl right here."

The NCR sergeant nodded at her sarcasm, it being fairly known that women were not treated as the equal of men and that it was very unlikely that she was a spy.

"That's enough lip, young lady." A much younger bespeckled man barked nasally.

The sergeant nodded deferentially to the younger, flashing a bemused expression at Jacky.

"Your pardon, Lieutenant, my fault for being too casual."

The 'lieutenant' puffed up at the NCOs apologetic demeanor, the insincerity of the sergeant's remark lost on the naïve young officer.

"Yes, sorry Lieutenant, just a little joke." Jacky replied, following the sergeant's example at playing meek in front of the pride of the NCR army.

"Just drop your kit and keep your hands where we can see them. We just need to do a quick search and you can be on your way."

Jacky did as the kindly man asked, dropping her pack at her feet and then backing a step or two away while holding up her hands.

The sergeant gestured at two of the patrol members to go through her things while he and the rest of the squad kept an eye on the courier.

"So, Ms…?"

"Jacqueline Summers."

"Ms. Summers, what brings you out here this evening?"

"I'm a courier with the Mojave Express, just signed on, and I'm taking this package to Novac."

The lieutenant regarded her sharply at that and pushed his glasses up further before gifting them all with his grating voice, "Novac? We got a report that there had been a murder up that way. Poor woman had her head blown clean off. You wouldn't know anything about that now would you?"

"No sir, I've never even been to Novac before. I'm just following the map Mr. Nash drew for me."

The lieutenant looked unconvinced and tried to intimidate her by fixing her with his hardest glare. If it weren't for the heavily armed patrol that he was in charge of, it would have been a laughable attempt.

"Um, Sir?" One of the NCR troopers, a woman not much older than Jacky, interrupted the officer's blustering.

"Yes Private what is it?" he snapped, not taking his eyes off Jacky.

"Courier marked parcel here, we were just taking a peek inside, well… take a look."

The lieutenant sighed audibly as he gestured imperiously for the private to hand him the package.

He glanced down at it, almost annoyed and nearly handed it back when his eyes snapped back down at the package with a speed that would've given anyone whiplash.

"Sergeant, restrain this woman immediately."

"Sir?"

The young man waved the package under the sergeant's nose half in a gesture of exasperation and half excitedly, like a proud puppy bringing a spit covered ball to his master.

The sergeant took the package from the frantically excited officer and looked at its contents. His expression fell and after a moment looked up at Jacky with a hardened expression that frightened her.

"Take the young woman into custody." The sergeant repeated the officer's earlier order.

"Wait, what? Why?" Jacky spluttered, confusion writ plain upon her face.

The lieutenant snatched the package from the NCOs hand and ripped free a sheaf of paper from the incompletely opened box. He sprang forward and shoved it in Jacky's face.

"Care to explain this!" He shrieked.

Jacky had to lean back away from the fluttering page and focused on the writing. Her face paled as she saw the bull symbol of the legion boldly emblazoned in wax. Looking further, her heart seemed to stop in her chest as she realized that the missive was meant for some woman in Novac. Though written in the odd way that the legion spoke, it was clear that they were acting on some kind of previous arrangement with the lady to sell another female into slavery.

Jacky blood ran cold and protests died in her throat as the NCR troopers disarmed her and secured her arms behind her back. Someone shoved her roughly forward before she rediscovered the power of speech and tried to find the words to convince the patrol of her innocence.

The demeanor of the patrol had profoundly changed from one of slightly bored nonchalance to a deadly serious ambience of readiness. The lieutenant could barely contain his glee at the capture of the 'Legion spy' and veritably capered as he bragged on and on to the sergeant.

The older man made polite noises to his CO and would occasionally glance back at Jacky, his face hard and unyielding but his eyes betraying his reluctance to pin the appellation of spy on her.

The initial panic and shock at being indicted so thoroughly on a package that she hadn't even known the contents of eventually wore off and she wracked her mind to explain the turn of events. She couldn't imagine the kindly old Mr. Nash working with the Legion. In fact, he explained to her that as a matter of policy, couriers did not question the contents of the packages they carried. Apparently, someone forgot to tell this NCR patrol that.

Her boots scuffed up dirt as she was prodded by the patrol, the company slowly but inexorably making its way to Camp McCarran just outside New Vegas.

* * *

 **A/N:** _I apologize that this chapter is a bit short. Certainly shorter than I would have liked and it didn't even include everything from my outline. Next update should be a bit longer since I will have to include in Chapter 10 what I originally intended for Chapter 9. Please let me know in the reviews if there are any specific characters you would like to see more of or would like to make an appearance in the story._


	11. Chapter 10: Trivialities

**Chapter 10**

 **Trivialities**

" _In war, events of importance are the result of trivial causes"_

 _~Julius Caesar_

* * *

"Damn Marco, you look as bad as I feel." Iara quipped, as she raised her tired head to regard her slowly waking friend.

"Is that a joke?" Marco moaned.

"Mmm, I wish it were." Iara joked languidly.

The lithe young woman stole a glance around the medical bay of the newly finished barracks and spotting no one, quickly stole a chaste kiss from the recently conscious corporal.

"Hey," Marco soothed quietly, noting the suddenly distraught expression on the normally unflappable young woman, "it's alright. I'm alright."

"Pendejo!" The fury for which she was well known came back, "You don't fucking get to do that! You can't get hurt like that and make me worry."

"Hey, ow.. Ow!" Marco feebly protested as he fended off her not so gentle slaps.

Iara collapsed onto Marco, her arms draped limply over the bed and her head and chest resting on his broad chest. He ran his brawny hands through her short hair and made soothing noises, feeling oddly content despite the pain lancing through his body.

Griff halted at the entrance to the med deck, hesitant to disturb the two during their 'moment'. In the end, prudence won out over his desire to check in on his trooper and he stole away quietly.

The massive clank of the bulkhead door easing open on hissing hydraulics foreshadowed Engineer Luca's arrival.

"Sir", Luca saluted lazily, the greasy spanner arcing in the air with his movement, "I was just looking for you."

"Walk with me." Griff murmured, his thoughts still nestling on the image of the two soldiers finding solace with each other.

Luca fell in beside his commander, the silence unbroken save for the staccato metal tapping of their boots on the corrugated metal deck.

As they reached the lift, Luca coughed nervously before shattering the silence with a sudden question.

"We're not ever going to get back are we?"

"What makes you say that?" Griff asked.

"We don't know how we got here. Flight computer is jacked to hell. Adjutant can't make heads or tails of our telemetry or flight path. Even if we knew how we got here, that doesn't help us get back. We set the scanner to probe for vespene deposits and so far they've scanned jack and shit."

"I'm no engineer Luca, but vespene isn't strictly necessary for us to expand our tech base and get a drop ship built."

"True, true. Old Earth didn't have access to vespene yet still managed. But we don't have the industrial capacity to replicate a suitable substitute. Hell, there are backwoods border colonies better off than we are!"

Griff patted the air consolingly to forestall the engineer's increasing frustrated arguments.

"The best we can do, everything we can do, will be done. We'll see Haven again, somehow. We just need to focus on what's in front of us."

Though Luca was far from mollified, he quieted in appreciation of the Captain's effort. Not one for long silences, he simply offered a terse nod of farewell before disappearing into the bowels of the command center, leaving the commander alone with his thoughts.

Despite his assurances to the fiery engineer, Griff had doubts about their ability to get back into space, let alone retrace their steps and get back to Haven. There had to be a solution, he just needed to have the wisdom to recognize it and the courage to see it through.

* * *

"Ha!" Veronica punctuated her strike against the thick carapace of the radscorpion, even her augmented power fist having little effect on the massive arachnid.

"Incidentally, I blame you for this." She hissed, dancing back as the scorpion angrily jabbed at her with its stinger.

"I thought it'd be a good shortcut." Paul gasped, reloading so fast his hands were a blur.

Veronica dropped down just avoiding having her face impaled and rolled out of the way, noting with dismay the rumble that accompanied yet ANOTHER radscorpion joining the fray.

Paul lunged, barely avoiding the first scorpion's attack, its claws snapping inches from his torso and snagging some material. He winced at the tearing sound, grateful that it was his duster that got torn and not his skin. He fired point blank into one of the scorpions eyes, the shock and pain forcing the creature to miss with its tail strike, the barbed stinger burrowing several inches into a small boulder.

Paul allowed himself a laugh at the radscorpion's expense. The amusement dying on his tongue as the massive creature easily lifted the boulder and tossed it aside with seemingly little effort. His dismay blunted his reaction time as the scorpion rushed him again, his side step not quite removing him from the behemoth's path. Hundreds of pounds of armored flesh knocked him bodily aside, his rifle flying from his hands in the opposite direction. He rolled over, choking on the dust and looked frantically around for his lost weapon.

Too late! The scorpion had turned around and was bearing down on him again. Whispering a prayer for the stupid thing he was about to do, he drew his broad machete and leapt up to meet the scorpion's bull rush, managing to avoid its grasping claws to land on its back. The scorpion's forward momentum coupled with his running leap granted strength to his machete as it slashed at a groove in its tail armor. The shock travelled up his arm and actually bounced him off and away from the scorpion, the creature hissing and screeching at the machete still stuck fast to its tail. Paul yelped just before hitting dirt, the landing driving the air from his lungs with a 'whoof!'

"Get up!" Veronica shouted, dodging and ducking the smaller, second scorpion's attack.

Paul wheezed and huffed, trying to unlock his lungs as he fought to regain his feet. His rifle slammed into his chest painfully, the impact somehow convincing his lungs to expand. He coughed and gagged while trying to gulp in mouthfuls of air as he fumbled with the rifle Veronica had angrily thrown at him.

"For a courier, you really suck at... Hey!" Her insult was interrupted by a brace of explosions that rippled mere yards away. The pair of scorpions were suitably distracted from making her or Paul into their next meal by the unexpected assault. She rose into a crouch to see a securitron wheeling towards them, its arms spitting grenades and bullets at the scorpions.

"Victor! Good to see you!"

Whatever answer Victor may have given was drowned out by the pained squeal from the smaller of the two scorpions, its carapace cracked and oozing orange ichor as it thrashed at the battling robot. Paul raised the Survivalist's Rifle, slamming the newly loaded magazine in with a crunch and immediately began to pepper the scorpion with precision fire.

Veronica was always impressed with the almost super human accuracy he displayed. Every bullet striking the scorpion within an area no bigger than her fist. Even the vaunted radscorpions were no match for the sheer number of 12.7mm rounds that had impaled it, and with a final twitch the monster finally fell dead.

"Oh no."

Veronica looked up at that, seeing the courier walking over to the securitron and scorpion wrapped in each other's embrace, both silent and still. She walked over and noted the damage the scorpion had inflicted on its metal body, gouges and dents everywhere and the thick glass of its face screen shattered around the claw that the radscorpion had impaled him with. She joined him and examined the carnage, slamming her fist into the scorpion when it started to twitch. The impact broke them apart, the scorpion rolling down an incline and Victor slamming into the rocky ground with a thud of finality.

"Ah, sorry about that Vic. Thanks for the help... again."

With a nonchalant whistle, Maxson began to open up the ammo hoppers on the securitron and pulling out 9mm rounds and a pair of grenades.

"Boy aren't you just the sentimental type."

"What? Oh. Yeah, he's fine. He'll pop back up in another securitron eventually. He's already done it once before when I wandered into a cazadore nest shortly after stumbling my way out of Goodsprings."

Veronica's ears tickled as she swore she heard more skittering in the distance, the sound compelling her to grab the protesting courier by the arm and half dragging him back and away from his so-called 'shortcut'.

"Ok, yeah let's go this way." Paul said consolingly, his mind already racing with ideas on how he would make this up to Veronica.

Though scowling from beneath her brown hood, he detected an edge of amusement from the scribe and hugged her shoulders once she finally deigned to let go of his arm. He started to rethink his plan, as he didn't feel as though he had a timeline to convince the Great Khans per Mr. House's instructions, but he did make a promise to see Cass soon. Steering Veronica in the general direction of the Mojave Outpost, they began to chat and joke, the incident with the radscoprions all but forgotten.

* * *

The elder NCR sergeant hissed, "Careful everyone, keeps your eyes open. Lost a patrol around here last week."

The young lieutenant, though inexperienced and cocky, tilted his head at the sergeant and kept his breathing steady despite the spike of fear that froze his heart for a moment. He had never been on this side of New Vegas before and from the looks of things, he would avoid coming here anytime in the future.

Jackie plopped down onto a convenient rock, despair sapping her of the vitality and hope she felt when first leaving Goodsprings. She reached up to rub her sore shoulders before the chains of her bondage stopped her short. She let her hands fall into her lap with a sigh and looked up as the beating sun abated in the shadow of the older man fell over her.

He glanced down at the young woman, a tenderness in his gaze that alleviated some of Jackie's apprehension. He opened his mouth as if to say something when something hot and wet splashed against her face. A high pitched keening howl rose in a crescendo of sensation until it plucked at her pain threshold.

The older man fell without a noise, slipping loosely to the ground like a pile of rags to drape ignominiously at her feet. Her vision was painted red and with trembling fingers Jackie wiped at the wetness on her face and stared with muted horror at the thick ropes of red gore dangling from her fingers.

It was only then that she woke to the chaos reigning around her. Bullets whizzed and buzzed like angry hornets as men and women in NCR livery shouted to one another in barely controlled panic. The lieutenant stood stock still, the color drained from his face as his lips moved without sound. His eyes were wide and locked onto the slumped corpse of the NCO at her feet, as if he was expecting guidance from the dead to somehow check this reality.

She rolled back from the rock and hid behind it, using it and the former sergeant's body as cover. Try as she might, she couldn't tear her gaze from the scene unfolding around her. The lieutenant's agonized screams cut through the din like a scalpel through pliant flesh. His heart stopping shrieks were punctuated by the hysterical laughter of a raider who bathed the young officer in sheets of flame.

The frenzied screams and wild eyes of the attacking raiders meant only one thing... Fiends. The NCR patrol displayed their lack of experience as they panicked, some fumbling with their weapon while others fired wildly at the screeching Fiends. A croaking gasp accompanied the death of another trooper, his hand clasped on the garish wound on his neck.

One trooper, clearly overcome and whose compass had pegged firmly into flight mode, knocked Jacky over in her haste. Dogs rushed over Jacky's prone form and try as she might, she couldn't shield herself from the terrible ripping sounds as the dogs tore flesh from the rundown woman.

The last trooper straddled her, unintentionally shielding her as bullets riddled him, his body jerking wildly before collapsing on top of her, his dying sigh breathing death right into her face.

Jackie tried with minimal success to stop trembling. Her body shook and seized of its own accord and set her teeth chattering in her skull like a rattle. The silence that fell was deafening and she was convinced that her heartbeat would betray her to the raiders like a beacon. She heard them giggling as they moved among the NCR patrol, sudden panicked begging cries ended with the brutal smack of metal chopping into meat. She tightened her eyes against the inevitable as a far more ominous shadow fell over her, the stink rolling off the raider almost making her gag.

"Oi! Let's go! Cook-Cook's bringing the stew and I got the brew!"

The formless darkness above her chuckled and moved away, leaving only the stench of charred meat to whisk her off into unconsciousness.

Insects buzzed and chirped in the cooling desert as Jackie clawed her way back to wakefulness, the panicked jolt coursing through her body and sending her reeling with terror as she kicked and rolled up, the body of the NCR trooper sliding off of her. The stench of burned flesh reeked and caused her stomach to heave uncontrollably.

Her still bounds hands hampered her movements and in a way, brought her out of the imagined nightmares of her somnolence into the very real nightmare of her circumstances.

She jerked her head in the direction of a sudden moan, the breathy rasp sending shivers down her spine. She crawled towards the noise, a trail of smoke wreathed about the blackened and shriveled form lying amidst the devastation. An earnest croak wheezed from cracked lips as she gasped and attempted to control the bile rising into her throat.

Though charred beyond recognition, she somehow knew that the pathetic thing clinging to life before her was the cocky lieutenant. All pretense of hubris had been immolated away by the cackling flames of cruelty leaving nought but this brittle shell of a man.

Tears flushed away some of the dried blood ringing her eyes and she tried to soothe the young man.

"Puuuhh… leeee …" The living dead moaned, his voice a cold whisper rising like a long forgotten eulogy from a cold sepulcher.

Eyelids burned away left only the ruined craters of his eyes to stare uselessly into the sky, his skin cracking and flaking as his arms quested for surcease from his ruin.

Her hands felt the burn as she grasped the knife still tucked into the man's belt, the hot handle searing itself to her palm as she yanked it free from his charred waistband. With a lover's care, she whispered cooing nonsense into the holes where his ear should have been as she deftly slid the knife with surgical precision into his neck. It crackled as it parted charred flesh, like sawing through old cardboard.

Bright blood spurted onto her hands as she withdrew the hot steel and the young man drew in his final breath and let it rattle from his lungs in his last sigh.

Reversing the knife in her grip and heedless of the slippery mess of arterial blood covering the weapon, she sawed it clumsily at the knot of her binds, her mind lost in the simple rhythmic motion delaying the inevitable processing of that eternal question, 'what now?'

Ashur sighed in relief at the image coming into focus on his rifle scope. Though he had arrived too late to intervene in the ambush on the NCR troopers, he found that fate itself had seen fit to spare the young woman, his hoped for prodigy. He observed for a short time, finally deciding that his hours of watching from a distance were at an end. Moving slowly and with deliberate care, he walked towards Jacky, careful to not startle the young woman who was obviously locked deeply in the prison of fear and shock.

She made no response when he knelt by her and offered no resistance when he scooped her up in his arms. Surveying the site one last time, he set off at a jog to the campsite he had set up at the abandoned Basincreek building. He slowed as he approached the dilapidated ruin, his keen eyes and psychic senses expanding his awareness and seeking…

He noted that his trip lines and spider mines were intact and he sensed no living creatures nearby, yet entered the building as quietly as he could burdened with Jacky on his shoulder. He gently set the young woman down behind the old reception desk that he had cleared into a small living space. Ashur paused, and in an uncharacteristic move, removed his helmet with the hissing gasses purpling the air in a wreath around his head.

"I know you." Jacky murmured, her mouth barely moving while the lightest whisper zephyred past her chapped lips. Ashur nodded, though the movement was lost on the young woman, as her gaze was locked firmly on some distant point, her mind failing to cope with the recent slaughter of her captors.

"How do I know you?" She croaked, the severe lack of moisture robbing her of elocution.

"Because we are the same, in time you will learn how. For now, you need sustenance and rest. Focus your energy on that. We will speak more when you are ready."

He stood and toed some ration packs in her direction before unceremoniously slamming his helmet back into place and striding from the room to take up watch outside.

Exhaustion, both physical and emotional weighed her down and made her feel as though she were deep under water, the cold pressure pulling at her limbs. She slumped to the side and crawled a few inches to grasp one of the ration packs and pulled it tightly to her chest, the rest of her body coiling around it in a fetal position. Cool water rinsed the ash and grit from her mouth and soothed her with instant relief from the thirst she didn't know assailed her. Strength finally left her completely and she fell into a blessedly dream free sleep.

* * *

Half a dozen men and women sweated under the stern gaze of the petite blonde woman, her powerful strides accentuated by the firm musculature which rippled beneath the form fitting body glove she wore. She walked the line of them, pointing out even the most minor of infractions with all the unyielding finality of any martinet throughout history. These yokels were recent recruits, a small group of families fleeing the path of destruction being paved by Caesar's Legion. Every one of them lost someone to the Legion or to the subsequent frenzied diaspora that succeeded their tribe's defeat. Though fearful of the slight woman striding back and forth before them, their courage was molded by virtue of their survival and a core of determination was birthed within them to never fail their families again.

Even the trainer's barks were nearly drowned out with the clash and clangor of the three SCV's at work. The stanchions of the virgin barracks already reached for the sky, the robotic armatures welding plates under the SCV pilot's direction. Likewise, the other two SCVs were busy in their own industrious ballet, lifting and drilling and slamming repurposed steel into supply depots to feed, clothe and arm the growing Terran camp.

A former NCRCF resident, Hannigan, sat on a rock next to a short brunette, Nadia, both of their rapt attentions focused on a holographic 3 dimensional display of human anatomy as their instructor manipulated the controls to focus on each system in turn. The sunlight gleamed off of her pristine white armor as she pointed and explained each display as they scrolled through the medical database. Hannigan considered the path his life had taken to lead him to this point. He considered his comrade for a moment, the worry lines creasing Nadia's forehead as she made notes. The two of them were going to be the first in a batch of combat medics, the sheer technology of these Terrans boggling his mind.

Even the children were put to work, dragging bits of refuse and debris for recycling in the bins scattered throughout the settlement. Despite the hard work, their toil was marked with joviality as the foursome made a game of their efforts. Calling out points as they tossed their salvage into the bins and making up rules seemingly at random.

Nearly all the metal from the towers and security fence that had surrounded the NCRCF had already been repurposed, the ugly scars in the tan colored dirt the only testament of their existence. The 3rd supply depot had finally been completed, providing the necessary supplies to maintain their growing encampment. 2 of the 4 bunkers were complete, each actively manned by a veteran marine and at least 1 of the virgin inductees who had until recently, called the NCRCF home as inmates. They had only received preliminary training on their weaponry, the rest of their training and outfitting awaiting the completion of the barracks. The arming chamber of the barracks had the necessary equipment to forge new CMC-300 hard skins and gauss rifles for the Terran's needs, as well as a neural relay which could imprint their minds with the information they would need to function within their new paradigm. The commander had firmly rejected the notion of re-socializing the former inmates, trusting more in the ability of well-trained men eager for redemption over re-socc'd marines.

He nursed his coffee on the operations deck of the command center, looking down over the bustling camp with an air of satisfaction. He always felt more comfortable cradled within the support offered by a fully functional camp. He still felt vulnerable though, the lack of information about the area irking him to no small degree. A Commander's lifeblood lay in good situational awareness and it was the one area he lacked.

Making up his mind, he turned to the communications console and tapped into the squad's network, "Sergeant Petreko, Command."

A slight blurt of static preluded her response, "I read you Commander."

"I need you to do some recon of the local area. Take some of the newbies with you and see what you can see. Start with that town the courier told us about, Primm."

"Solid copy. We will move out within the hour."

 **On the plateau above the camp...**

The old soldier's ribs ached from the long hours spent laying still among the hard rock of the plateau yet dismissed his body's discomfort in order to watch a bit longer. Finally satisfied that he had gathered what information there was to be had, he curtly gestured to the other men beside him. They slithered back from the ridgeline, careful to not disrupt the natural flow of the landscape and kept the dying daylight at their backs. The setting sun had aided them in this, for its glare would discourage scrutiny while not impeding their own. When they had reached far enough back to avoid detection, they stood in a circle and awaited the older man's word.

"This must be conveyed to Centurion Aurelius at Cottonwood Cove. Let nothing stand in your way. These degenerates must be removed before the Legion marches on the dam."

His comrades nodded, the light of the setting sun gleaming like blood on their spears and in the fanatical gleam in their hard eyes.

"Ave Imperator."


	12. Chapter 11: Regret

Chapter 11: Regret

"It is impossible to strive for the heroic life. The title of hero is bestowed by the survivors upon the fallen, who themselves know nothing of heroism."

~Johan Huizinga

* * *

The oppressive air was hot with acrid smoke, the contrails of rifle fire and the rage reddened afterglow of innumerable laser blasts. NCR troopers had finally pushed their way to the hill's summit overlooking Helios One and had put their new position to distinct tactical advantage by dragging a trailer mounted with an automatic 20mm grenade launcher. The thump thump thump of the heavy weapon pockmarked the desert canvas below and forced the Brotherhood knights and paladins further and further back. Infantry units pressed their advantage by pressing ever closer to the Brotherhood lines.

Meanwhile, in a control center high above the raging battle, a sweat-soaked scribe cursed loudly as the console he was working at firmly denied him access in defiant monochrome.

He turned as he spoke, making his report, "My apologies Elder, but the latest algorithms have failed to break the Archimedes encryption…"

His words died on his lips as he noted that he was speaking to an oppressively empty and now silent room. Elder Elijah, how just moments before was busily scowling and pacing, was nowhere to be seen. Without the grating of the Elder's constant stream of recriminations and the clack clack clack of his pacing footsteps, the scribe could only hear desperate radio chatter and the sounds of battle in the valley outside.

As he continued to stand in bewildered consternation, the heavy steel door slammed open nearly frightening the poor scribe beyond his already stretched wits. The sonorous drumbeat of a fully armored Paladin tromping into the room only slightly belied his anxiety, as he was now faced with the dour expression of Paladin McNamara, who undoubtedly was searching for the elusive Father Elijah.

McNamara scanned the room with a harrowed look, and narrowed his eyes in barely constrained anger as he directed his gaze to the scribe.

"Well scribe? Where is the Elder? Where is Elijah?"

The Paladin punctuated his questions with fist raised ominously as he stalked ever closer, until he towered over the red robed scientist and bathing him in the weight of his impressive shadow.

"I'm sorry, Paladin. I cannot answer your question. He was here a moment ago awaiting the results of our latest attempt to crack the encryption on the mainframe. But as soon as I was about to report our continued failure, he disappeared."

"He… disappeared." The paladin repeated the words slowly as if incredulous and his mind refused to accept the implications.

"Now, after his insistence that we hold it against overwhelming odds. In this very moment, when we are about to be wiped from the face of existence, he… disappears!?" The volume of his voice raised like a crescendo with each word until he was nearly shouting in rage into the scribe's face.

The paladin shook for a moment, eyes closed as he attempted to compose himself. He sighed heavily, as if to expel in a single breath, all the frustration and anguish he had both experienced and witnessed in the last several days. Brothers and sisters that would never see the light of another day, dying to defend the indefensible; falling to protect the worthless. And now the vaunted Elder has fled, abandoning those who fought and died for him.

McNamara turned abruptly once his trembling had abated, seemingly conjuring fresh resolve from the ashes of their ruin.

"Scribe, get me comms, patch me in to all Brotherhood personnel."

The scientist flipped a few switches, eager to please the unstable and determined man, "Done, you have the channel."

"Attention, Brotherhood of Steel. This is Paladin McNamara. Elder Elijah is unaccounted for and therefore I will be assuming command. All units report their disposition."

McNamara tallied the reports as he received them, the field units unanimous in their support now that finally someone was taking charge and giving orders. He knelt at a console and nodded his head as he calculated in his mind, seeing the ways of war play out and constructing from the fickle winds of fate a plan to save his beloved Brotherhood.

"Echo Squads, fall back to position Delta 2 4. Lay down suppressive fire with heavy weapons. All remaining Paladins, form up at Foxtrot 1 7. All non-combatant personnel, form up behind the Paladins. Paladin Hardin, bring your group to Omega 3, await me there." He turned to regard the scribe and fixed him with a steady eye, "You have your orders; carry them out."

He swept from the room with the same alacrity that he had entered it, a chorus of "Ad Victoriam" flooding the comms and providing the accompanying cadence to his march.

* * *

The explosion sent a cascade of brown dirt and black smoke spiraling into the air around the retreating knights. They fell back in pairs, each fire team pausing to lay down suppressive fire with their laser rifles as their brothers moved further back from cover to cover. The rally point was in sight, but the NCR troopers were hitting them hard and not allowing their momentum to abate. Whatever the NCR hoped to gain by this war, they were certainly driving forward with purpose, grinding wave after wave of conscripted citizen soldiers against the disciplined fire of the experienced brothers. And for all the lack of grace or martial prowess, their horde tactics were actually winning this fight, a ludricrous notion if they hadn't been outnumbered 12 to 1.

Their situation went from bad to worse, as the light artillery the NCR had set up on the ridge zeroed in on their position. Geysers of dirt and shrapnel buffeted them as they attempted to find cover from the deluge. Hope seemed lost until a shadow fell over them and the arrhythmic percussion of the artillery was broken by a steady drumbeat of power armored boot striking the desert floor.

Paladin McNamara and Paladin Hardin were braced by a squad of the hardest and most experienced paladins as they strode directly into the inferno and laid waste to the advancing NCR elements. A howling conscript was simply blasted aside with a powered fist, his face erupting into a fountain of blood and gore. Another trooper stood his ground and fired point blank at the approaching paladin, his bullets pinging against his chest plate like frozen peas flicking against tin. McNamara planted his left foot firmly and used his momentum to swing his right boot into his midsection. The conscript disappeared from sight as he was catapulted up and away, his body folding in half from the force. The sharp crack of a breaking neck accompanied the backhand swing of another paladin, the brother sweeping the foe in order to clear his firing pattern. A well timed burst of laser blasts perforated the air and bored steaming holes into the enemy infantry, three of them howling as they clasped hands desperately to the cauterized craters in their torsos.

The brothers paused in their charge to bring up their weapons to enact a disciplined volley. A brace of distant targets were perforated by super-heated beams of coherent light. Their path cleared, they formed a wedge and broke into a staggered run, the weight of the armor making it seem as though they were in a constant state of controlled falling. Optimized servos strained as they propelled the paladins through the surging ocean of NCR troops, scattering them aside like the armored prow of the sea going battleships of old. In minutes, they reached the summit of the ridge and laid into the grenadiers and artillery men with steel gauntleted fury. They smashed the artillery pieces into uselessness and scattered their ruin against the plateau. With the loss of their artillery, the NCR charge temporarily staggered to a halt, their momentum spent and confidence flagging under the unexpected counter attack.

From the top of the hill, the paladins formed a circle and fired into the mass of reeling NCR troopers, putting elements to flight, albeit temporarily.

The Brotherhood made good use of the lull, a surcease from this madness. They gathered up their wounded and fell back in good order to the previously communicated rallying points. McNamara gave the necessary order, before the advantage of the attack was lost, and the brotherhood put the Helios facility to their backs and left it to the NCR.

McNamara waited for the last of the teams to crest the ridge as they made their retreat, one of the final knights tarrying long enough for his brethren to be clear before enacting the self-destruct protocols for those fallen paladins and knights they could not recover. A staccato of muted plasma detonation stitched its way across the battlefield, bathing the unwitting NCR personnel in its green glow.

His breath caught in his throat as he beheld a straggler hoisting a fellow paladin across his shoulders and tromping up to the ridge at the best speed his damaged and overworked power armor could manage. His mouth went dry as his heart hammered in his chest like a titan desperate for escape from Tartarus when he recognized the armor the last paladin bore. The son of his beloved and long lost sister struggled heroically to carry his comrade in the best tradition of the Brotherhood. Surging out beyond the haze of detonating power armor fusion cores, the swiftest of the NCR forces appeared and peppered the ground around them with ill-aimed small arms fire. His mouth opened wide, he struggled forward, his legs not quite responding as though stuck in some kind of morass. The hammer blow stopped his heart as his nephew disappeared in a geyser of fire and dirt.

* * *

An oppressive darkness surrounded him as Elder McNamara surged from his bunk, his panicked breathing muted by the constant hum of distant power generators. He fell back with a moan, wiping the sheen of sweat from his forehead as the door to his private chamber opened and a ray of soft white light flooded in.

"Elder, are you alright sir?" The silhouette in the doorway asked, his voice soft despite his helmet's speakers.

Elder McNamara shook his head and blinked away the fading images of that accursed day and found his voice enough to respond, "I'm fine, thank you Paladin. Resume your post."

The shadow nodded and retreated while closing the door behind him, again plunging the room into darkness. McNamara lay back onto his bunk and stared up at the ceiling, wondering if he would live long enough to put that bleak chapter of his past firmly behind him. His thoughts went back to the returning patrol, the four who had left in the early morning slashed to two upon their return. They laid their brothers on the deck with a wearied sigh, blood leaking from the holes in their armor dripping down the metal grill of the floor.

He raised an eyebrow at them and as expected, they relayed a story very similar to the one painted to him by Veronica and the courier. He released the survivors to the scribes' attention and knelt at the bodies of his brothers. He silently cursed at the overzealous foolishness the patrol leader had instigated, a work of worry gnawing at him that it was in part instigated by the lockdown he continued to advocate. He knew that the opposition to his position was only growing, the inability of the Chapter to execute their Codex granted mandate besmirching the honor of the others.

They didn't know. They couldn't know. Aside from Edgar, they had lost the cream of their experienced Knights and Paladins at Helios One. Only the young and the inexperienced, shielded by their veteran brothers and sisters had walked away from that tragedy. 150 men, women and children attempted to fill the empty halls of the bunker with their industry. It was a pathetic attempt, they occupied only a fraction of the complex and even that area was largely bereft of humanity. Now there would be two less walking its halls.

These Terrans may seek retribution for their loss. Despite the assurances from the Courier and Veronica, they weren't Terrans. They didn't know how they would react or what plans they would enact. The best thing, the only thing, was to continue as they had. Maybe even to stymie the patrols for the time being to keep the Terrans from finding them. There was no other option.

He blamed the maudlin thoughts and the recent deaths as the reason behind the resurgence of his nightmares. He started to get the feeling that that was the day his Chapter had died, and that these days were the last gasps of a body whose heart had long stopped beating.

* * *

 ** _Elsewhere..._**

Katya glanced behind her at the two newly minted marines following in her wake. Their discipline was imperfect and they handled their weapons too tightly, nerves frayed during the events of that morning.

The Commander had wanted to get a better tactical feel for the area they inhabited and so sent the veteran, her, with the two newbies. He felt that melding her experience with their eagerness would bring out the best of both and forge a more effective combat unit. Plus, the new men needed valuable field experience.

They had set out early that morning, walking south and east, following an ancient set of railroad tracks. In the lead, Sgt. Petreko had easily spotted the makeshift IED's scattered around a small camper. They had ended up being simple proximity detonators stuck into several sticks of dynamite, easy enough to disarm or avoid. The real problem came with the men who had placed them there, former convicts of the NCR and acquaintances of the two new marines. They both froze while the convicts whooped and threw bundles of lit TNT in their direction. CMC armor was tough enough to take that kind of blast but it wasn't unvulnerable, enough of those charges and even their fabled protective advantage over the locals would dwindle. Snarling at their hesitation, Katya raised her gauss rifle and blasted both men, one through the thin metal of the camper he ducked behind in less time that it took either of the marines to even consider returning fire.

They had then spent the better part of the next half-hour getting their asses chewed by the irate woman and policing up the area. It hadn't occurred to either of them that they might run into others that they had formerly been known at the correctional facility, though of course in hindsight it was only natural that eventually they would. Both were committed to their new life though, the wonders of hot showers, three filling meals and being treated like human beings had done wonders for their growing sense of loyalty to the commander and the other Terrans. Plus, they were to a man, terrified of the little blonde woman who spoke with a strange accent.

Quietly agreeing to not give the fiery sergeant any further reason to lambaste them, they steeled themselves as they continued the patrol.

A wistful smile lit up Katya's face as she saw the loops of a defunct roller coaster rail in the distance. They reminded her of her childhood back on Earth before the UED expedition to the Koprulu sector. Her father was a mid-level officer who doted on his little girl as often as his duties permitted it. Her mood darkened as her memories continued down the path she had long avoided, to her father's court martial and execution for alleged sedition. Her vision blurred as tears threatened to spill from her eyes. She shook her head angrily, making the two marines wonder if they had something wrong, before gesturing for the men to take the lead and advance along either side of the road.

They had marched along the road towards what their information proclaimed as a town called 'Primm'. Some of the former convicts had informed the commander that some of the boys had broken off from the main group towards the town. The town seemed eerily quiet, causing the hair to stand up on Petreko's neck. She halted the men as they all spotted movement, a man dressed in some kind of khaki uniform approaching them.

"Halt! This town is off-limits to... wait, what? Brotherhood?!" The soldier skidded to a stop and raised his service rifle in suddenly trembling hands, confusion screwing up his face almost comically.

Sgt. Petreko raised the visor of her armor and approached slowly, holding up her empty hands placatingly. Their standing ROE was to avoid conflict unless absolutely necessary.

"I am Sergeant Katya Petreko of Raynor's Raiders. We have no affiliation with any Brotherhood. We are here in peace."

The trooper's face screwed up in obvious doubt, but her words at least colored his reaction with a great deal of reticence. This was obviously above his pay grade, so he stood aside and gestured to his left, towards the more rundown side of town.

"Lieutenant Hayes is in charge here. Head on up and speak with him, you'll find him in the center tent once you get to our encampment. Just watch yourself, Primm is under lockdown. A bunch of escaped prisoners have pretty much taken over."

"Escaped prisoners? Why haven't you dealt with them?" Katya asked, the lack of effectiveness of this military outfit to protect the town souring her opinion of these people considerably.

"We don't have the numbers to push them out, in any case, any other questions should be addressed to Lieutenant Hayes."

* * *

 **Primm, one hour later...**

Katya had to admit, grudgingly and only to herself, that the two new marines were making up for their earlier hesitation with enthusiasm. After a frustrating meeting with Lt Hayes and a somewhat less useless talk with an older man named Nash. the sergeant had decided to upgrade the parameters of her mission to include liberation. After clearing the few remaining convicts patrolling along the tracks of the old roller coaster, they burst into the 'Bison Steve', her usual tactics of speed and aggression paying dividends as they overwhelmed the initial defenders.

The trio moved confidently through the first floor, coming to an enlarged area that may have been a ballroom where the convicts had set up barricades with overturned dining room tables and other debris. Alarms rang out in her helmet as curtains of flame erupted around them. The flames enveloped the group as the man wielding it popped around a corner and hosed them down while laughing maniacally.

Thankfully the flamer unit had nothing on the Perdition flamethrowers the Terrans used. Striding forward like an avenging angel, the flames blasting up and around her armored form like yellow-orange wings, lent her an even fiercer aspect. She knocked the flamer from the man's grasp with her suit-augmented strength and lifted him bodily into the air, turning to slam him into the nearest wall. The force of the impact shook dust and plaster from the ceiling, wreathing the marine and her victim in dust. She stepped away, leaving the lower half of his body hanging out of the recently created hole, dribbles of blood leaking trails through the dust and grime.

The other marines, not to be outdone, rushed forward and used their weight and momentum to slam bodily into a barricade two of the raiders were using as cover. They blasted right through, stunning the two filthy convicts long enough for them to be quickly dispatched. With a simple backhand, one raider found his head facing the wrong direction when gauntlet met his cheek with explosive force. The other briefly felt terrific pressure in his head before darkness claimed him, the other marine slamming his open gauntlets on either side of his head, smashing it like an overripe fruit.

"That's far enough! One more step and I paste the lawman!" The last raider cried, his 9mm held forcefully against the alleged lawman.

Katya halted and considered for a moment, watching the beads of sweat trickle down the panicking raider's forehead as he shook, the hostage squeezing his eyes tightly shut and grimacing at the barrel forcing his head sideways. One of the marines coughed just as the raider jerked, the remains of his head splattering against the wall behind him as his body took a moment to succumb to gravity and slump against the hostage, painting the poor fellow in the blood jetting from his neck. Katya re-holstered her C-7 sidearm, her draw so fast that all three witnesses didn't realize what had happened until she put the weapon away.

"Holy shit Sergeant!"

"That's how we do it in the Koprulu Sector boys."

 **A short time later...**

Katya mulled over what Deputy Beagle had told her, that the escaped convicts had executed the former sheriff and his wife. Shortly after taking over the town, the NCR had come in and had even restored some semblance order for a short time before more convicts fled the second fall of the NCRCF. They bolstered the resistance enough to push the NCR back across the divide. The sergeant felt a small twinge of guilt over her people's role in making things in this town worse, but the way everyone here seemed to take it in stride made it seem as though this type of constant paradigm shift was the norm here. The former deputy, as he insisted, deferred all responsibility, scurrying into the relative safety of the 'Vicky and Vance' casino. Huffing with irritation at the craven man, she surveyed the still deserted looking town and realized that the Raiders would have to fill in where local blue and the NCR soldiers had failed.

"Hey there youngster." the grizzled face of Johnson Nash greeted, as her troupe entered his offices, "how can I be of service?"

Sergeant Petreko considered her words for a moment before speaking, idly running her gauntleted hands over the spherical contraption sitting on his counter.

"Now that the powder gangers are crushed, who is in charge here?"

"Well, ain't no one in charge really. Beagle would be the closest if he stayed deputy and if he weren't as useless as Brahmin shit."

"Johnson Nash! Language!" His wife chided, calling down from the second floor.

"Sorry darling. Anyway, as I was saying. I reckon those NCR fellas will be pushing in now that those gangsters are gone, though I'm pretty sure folk aren't particularly taken with their brand of interference."

Katya drummed her fingers on the counter, each thud of her armored fingers making Nash wince for his poor counter.

"What are you thinking Sarge?" One of the marines asked, his visor opening to allow the coils of tobacco rich smoke to escape.

"If and when we get enough people, we could have a presence here. We could provide security and use this area as a staging point between our main camp and the city. Meyers used to be a Sheriff, no?"

"Yeah, now that you mention it, I do recall some guys talking about how he used to be lawman back in the day." The marine added, talking around his cigar.

"What do you say Nash? Do you think the people of Primm would be alright with Raynor's Raiders providing a bit of stability in exchange for a plot of land to make an outpost in?"

"So long as you mind your manners and respect our privacy, it would be nice to not have to worry about them gangster or other critters out there for once."

Katya and the marines continued the discussion, keying the Commander in on the conversation as they hammered out the details. One nagging point that stuck out though was the continued NCR presence across the highway. One way or another, those troopers would have to be dealt with. The Commander doubted that Lieutenant Hayes would simply accept that they had lost the town.


	13. Chapter 12: Terra Incognita

Chapter 12: Terra Incognita

"But goodness alone is never enough. A hard, cold wisdom is required for goodness to accomplish good. Goodness without wisdom always accomplishes evil."

~Robert A. Heinlein, Stranger in a Strange Land

* * *

The pale, sassy redhead pulled the brim of her tattered hat further down to shade the skin of her freckled face until it was entirely cast in shadow. It almost hid the scowl which marred the otherwise pretty face.

"Why do I let myself get roped in with you anyway? And why is the whiskey always gone?" The young woman bemoaned, letting the amber bottle fall from her fingers dejectedly.

Paul Maxson smirked at her, earning a harsh glare from the mildly hung over Rose of Sharon Cassidy.

"It had something to do with waving this in your face." He replied, brandishing another bottle so that its contents sloshed around inside.

"Careful with that," Cass snapped, "and that ain't entirely it. Just part of it."

Paul tossed the bottle at her, which Cass deftly scooped from the air with a grunt. Though it was true that the whiskey he had promised her was the sweetener for the deal, the real reason the lovely Whiskey Rose accompanied him and Veronica was the promise of his aid in her revenge against Alice McLafferty and Gloria Van Graff, the leaders of the Crimson Caravan and Silver Rush respectively.

The two had colluded with one another to eliminate competition to the caravan enterprise with typical wasteland violence. Her own slaughtered caravan was but one of many that the ruthless alliance had put down in recent months.

Though the Courier thought that compiling damning evidence against the two conspirators and making sure it ended up in NCR hands was the right way to go, she had a more final and violent solution in mind.

Veronica was unusually silent this trip, the plucky young woman was usually an endless source of banal chatter as they travelled. But lately the young Brotherhood procurer had been distinctly laconic. She had barely muttered three words since they left the Mojave Outpost earlier that day. Despite the amusing distraction offered by Cass's complaints, he remained worried about what could have dampened his companion's innate and inexhaustible optimism.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself to pry in the young woman's troubled mind when the hair rose inexplicably on the back of his neck and a light shiver ran down his spine. He had come to learn, some would say the hard way, to not ignore that particular signal and immediately dropped to his stomach along the highway.

His companions, themselves well-travelled veterans of the Mojave, didn't question his sudden change in stance and immediately dropped down themselves.

To either side of the highway ahead of them loomed the shattered remnants of buildings known to locals as the Nipton Road Pit Stop, barely visible through the haze of dust laden wind howling its way across Ivanpah.

Straining their eyes, the trio could make out the silhouettes of several people huddled in the scant shelter provided by the destitute ruin. Pulling binoculars from his pack, the Courier waited until the wind abated enough to offer some clarity. Peering through the dirty lenses, he made out the ratty armor and threadbare clothes of what could only be members of the Jackal gang. Like the Vipers, the Jackals were once a powerful raider gang before the NCR showed up and crushed them beneath the weight of their conscripted military. Now they huddled in places like this, ambushing the occasional unwary traveler and eking out a subsistence level of existence, a pale shadow of their former strength.

He considered it a mercy, a bullet to the head of a diseased brahmin, to put down the raiders wherever he encountered them. Considering the alternative was to be killed and robbed himself, he was very cavalier in this attitude, with the lone exception of the Viper he had let go at Bonnie Springs.

He fixed Veronica with a determined look and tilted his head in the direction of the Jackals, she nodded her understanding and low crawled off the road and began to angle towards the waiting raiders, keeping the buildings between them to block their line of sight. Cass charged her lever-action shotgun, nodding to the courier to signal her readiness. Like Veronica, she moved off but on the opposite side of the road. Maxson took up the middle, hefting the Survivalist's rifle and shifting its stock into his shoulder.

Hunger gnawed painfully at the young raider's stomach and the damn wind kept blowing grit into every crevice it could find. Donna had said that some travelers were coming down the road, otherwise, the crew would be holed up somewhere else. But then, they'd still be hungry. Since the NCR stopped caravan traffic at the Mojave Outpost, pickings had been very slim. He really hoped that this group was well-provisioned, maybe even a pack Brahmin that they could carve up and roast into steaks. The Jackal closed his eyes wistfully, almost smelling the succulent beef roasting over an open pit. Those thoughts ghosted a small smile on his lips even as he fell, a neat hole bored into the side of his skull and the other side completely missing, flaps of torn skin flapping around the now empty cavity.

The others leapt up as their companion fell, one of them now drenched in the blood and brains of their erstwhile fellow. Hefting a crude sledge, the first of them identified the shooter and charged. His angry roar turned into a surprise yelp as a figure materialized just to his left, his confused expression frozen on his face even as a power fist smashed into his chest cavity and blasted him several feet away.

Pandemonium broke out as the angry retort of an assault rifle hammered 12.7mm rounds into the confused group, a power fisted dervish laid into them with an almost berserker rage and the thunderous percussive blast of a shotgun smeared their ruin onto the pavement. In moments, the lopsided battle was done and the small band of interlopers littered the side of the road as nothing more than food for the carrion birds.

The trio, with well-practiced expertise, searched the corpses. Admittedly, the haul from the destitute Jackals was rather meager, none of their weapons being worth the name and save for a small handful of caps, carried nothing else of value. Cass grimaced as she wiped some blood away onto a Jackal's shirt, cursing that the raiders hadn't even had any liquor on them. The late afternoon sun showed them no remorse and still hastened to meet its own slumber far to the west while they worked, their efforts evolving from looting to ridding themselves of the cloying gore.

Veronica made a noise of satisfaction as she smashed the meager lock on a crate and discovered a small cache of explosives within. Slipping them into her satchel, she looked up at her companions when a faint electronic song issued from the courier's wrist.

Maxson brushed some bits of bone and blood from his pip-boy when the device chirped at him insistently. It rarely made that particular noise and it always portended trouble when it did. With a sigh as the courier surrendered to his curiosity, he flipped and turned the controls to find a signal coming from the southeast. Still glued to his pip-boy, he began to wander in that general direction.

"Hey dumbass! Novac is that way!" Cass shouted after him, the exasperation in her voice very clear despite the wind's attempt to drown it out.

"Something… this way." He called back, distracted.

Cass rolled her eyes and cursed before seeing to it that her hat was still square on her head before following after the troublemaker. Veronica, just as distracted as the courier, but for an entirely different reason, merely shrugged and followed after the vulgar redhead.

Sunlight had long failed by the time they reached the source of the signal. They were taken aback at the odd contraption before them. A strange device lay on the desert floor, numerous shiny armatures extending out from it at odd angles and an image of an ever-moving eye projected onto the large wall of the Mojave Drive-in. The courier waved them back away from it as he crept closer to where the image was being projected from. He knelt beside the device and reached out for it when he was suddenly bathed in a bright blue light. Cass and Veronica shielded their eyes from the sudden glare and tried to blink away the after-image. Once their vision cleared, they were astonished to find that the courier was gone! In a panic, they rushed forward to the defunct device, calling out for the courier in voices that quickly went from worried to panic.

* * *

The Terran camp was a bustle of activity, scores of people smiling as they carried on the work of expanding the compound under the direction of the two Terran engineers. High up on the 3rd level of the command center, Louise monitored the power distribution and material processing from her consoles. She was becoming much more adept at her job under the continuing tutelage of the adjutant and even helped train several of the other new recruits. Louise stood up and looked out the armored windows onto the compound below. Four supply depots hummed with industry as they produced ammunition, food, medicine, even clothing for the camp. The square barracks housed the growing number of marines while a series of modular habitats took form to provide living space for the people coming to call this place home.

The commander noted the local woman taking in the scene of the bustling camp and smiled to himself for a moment before turning his attention back to the tactical plotter. It outlined the basic state of affairs of the camp as well as listed reports from Lt. Weyland, WO Bourgeois, Sgt Petreko and the engineers Luca and Dominic. He tapped the report from the engineers and studied it for perhaps the 20th time, fingers tapping the plexiscreen in consternation.

It showed the survey results from the detailed scan taken over the immediate area. It showed no trace of vespene, and without that strategic resource, they were unable to construct a vehicle factory or a starport. Without vespene, they were landlocked. Without vespene, they were limited to where they could reach with their own two legs. He knuckled his forehead as he reviewed Sharon's own analysis, which at least provided a marginal hope of modifying the local's fusion technology to adapt for Terran use. Still, at least they were more secure here now, with a dozen fully kitted marines and another medic to augment WO Bourgeois. Asher as always was out and about doing whatever it was Spectre's did, though refugees he had brought back from his last excursion was a very welcome and eager addition to their manpower.

Another point of good fortune, Sgt Petreko's patrol had yielded some friends. They had liberated a nearby settlement called Primm from some escaped convicts, that many of them were probably dregs from the purge his own forces had conducted was not lost on him. One of the newest SCV operators, declared trained by a proud Luca, was sent off with a marine to begin construction on a small encampment to act as their forward HQ. At least minerals were not a problem, the area was rich with derelicts that could be harvested for their base components and reconfigured for the Terran's needs. Captain Johnson considered sending further patrols out, perhaps after sending Meyers out to take command of the new outpost at Primm.

Still, the courier was due back any day now and together with his companions, they would attempt to treat with the Brotherhood of Steel again. The Commander was still rancorous over the attempted murder of one of his men, but was pragmatic enough to realize that an armed conflict against a foe who nearly matched the Terrans technologically, at least in infantry terms, was not in his people's best interest. Still, Captain Johnson was not convinced that the zealous fanatics could be brought to the peace table, despite the benefit such an arrangement could have for them both. He just couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something terrible was coming. He sincerely hoped that it was simply nerves at being in so foreign an environment and not an omen of the future.

* * *

The flames dancing in the braziers cast ominous shadows against the inner surface of the high walled tent. One could almost imagine shadowy armies rising and clashing against one another before being swept away like a wave by another rippling scene of dancing darkness. The scout let his eyes linger on the scene played out with shadow and canvas, his mind conjuring carnal images of brutality. Anything to distract him from the overpowering presence of the feared Legate Lanius. He had let his eyes wander once, settling upon the pleasing shapes of the slaves that attended the Monster of the East, but lust quickly descended into disgust and fear when he realized that their eyes had been ripped from their faces, to keep them from ever beholding their master. He had no desire to be maimed and join their macabre ranks and so wisely kept his eyes off the fierce bronze countenance of Mars.

The elder scout had just finished reporting to the Legate of the newcomers to the Mojave, of their industry and technology. He finished by calculating that it was these people who were responsible for the recent losses of several slaver cohorts. He stayed where he had first knelt after giving his report, sweat pooling as he awaited the word from the Legate.

"Caesar would not permit one such as these to exist, therefore I will not. We will crucify their warriors and retake the Legion's rightful property." The Legate finally rumbled, his voice muffled behind his mask.

"Their weapons are mighty, Legate. Their worship of technology has tendered unto them many advantages." The scout replied, hoping that his words would not be taken as disagreement.

"It does not matter, victory shall be ours, it shall be swift, and it will be honest, purchased with blood." Lanius grunted with conviction.

"Your will, Legate."

"We must strike quickly, before those beneath the banner of the Bear can entwine them with their words and forge a union that will make our task the harder. Centurion, come forth."

A man detached from the shadows, his gold and red armor was pristine and glittered with reflected light from the braziers. His face was stern and cold, his eyes reflecting an almost dispassionate disregard for everyone save the Legate. The scout knew of this centurion by rumor only. Not as brutal as most, he nevertheless had a reputation as an unforgiving martinet and for flawlessly executing the commands of the Legate and Caesar.

"Take your century north, the scouts shall show you the way. Raze their camp, crucify their men, enslave the rest."

Centurion Vorenus slammed his fist to his chest, then threw it straight outward in the Legion salute. He turned without another word and strode from the tent as if purpose lent his limbs unnatural speed.

Slivers of pale moonlight interspersed with shadows cast by thickening cloud cover created the image of ocean waves on the desert floor. Hoping to take advantage of the illusory landscape, bands of Legion war parties left the Legate's camp, each stealing forth to create havoc all along NCR lines. Scouts bearing the insignia of the Bear noted these parties and tried their best to track their movements. The last of the groups to leave moved ponderously as though under a great burden. Over 80 slaves shackled to one another in a long line shuffled forward dejectedly, at least a score of veteran legionaries on horseback keeping watch over their wards. Behind them a Brahmin pulled wagon creaked and groaned as it rolled on squeaky wheels carrying the spoils of war. The NCR watchers, knowing how stretched resources were, decided that it was better to track the movements of the obvious raiding parties. All they could do for the hopeless slaves was to offer muttered prayers.

Preying upon the ignorance of the Bear, the bravado of their 'General Oliver' and knowing how limited their capabilities were, the slaves continued to shuffle forward, projecting the image of beaten men. But beneath their cowls and iron chains, determined faces and armored limbs turned to the north where battle with a technologically superior enemy awaited them. Armor and weapons jangled in the wagons as the fury of the Legion unhurriedly made their way to wage war against the Terrans.

* * *

 _"And we're back. This is Mr. New Vegas, and I feel something magic in the air tonight, and I'm not just talking about gamma radiation. The Black Mountain Radio signal is back after a long absence. Listeners say the new programming is quote: Less for outcasts, and more for weirdos."_

Jacky smirked at the radio personality, before hurriedly glancing at the unflinching face of her mentor and blanking her own demeanor. They had stopped with the ominously named Black Mountain rising on the horizon to take stock.

Ashur had proclaimed that Jacky was ready for the next phase of her training, infiltration. Her task was to enter the compound located atop Black Mountain and determine the source of the strange radio transmission.

She was still reticent over utilizing these strange powers that she seemed to possess, let alone come to terms with the new paradigm under her teacher's tutelage. The man had referred to himself as a 'spectre', which was some kind of specialized psionic operative. He would train her, but her moniker would be 'Ghost', as it apparently took unique materials to become a spectre and there simply wasn't any here.

Jacky was shaken from her reverie by the not-so-gentle psionic nudge from Ashur, who had sent her a strong admonishment to be more alert. Jerking upright from the jolt, Jacky looked around and stretched out with her senses, limbering her psionic muscle as it were.

She soon realized the reason for Ashur's warning, as she felt gibbering voices whispering from the dark. They were inconstant, gibbering voices that spoke of madness and damaged minds. The only sensation from them she could read with any clarity was the overwhelming instinct to hunt and kill. Lowering her visor, she peered in the direction of the sensations and saw them, a pack of feral ghouls ambling towards their position, occasionally pausing to sniff the air or scratch at the ground aimlessly. Though the duo hadn't been spotted yet, unless they cloaked, the ghouls would be sure to catch their scent before too long.

Looking to her teacher for guidance, Ashur merely fixed her with a blank expression before gesturing towards her AGR-14 rifle.

The weapon was a beauty, its slim lines and light weight marking it as a vastly different sort of weapon than most any found in the wasteland. She ran her fingers along its pristine contours as she examined her weapon, releasing the magazine to inspect the rounds before gently sliding it back into place. Sliding the charging handle back in a single graceful movement, she lowered herself into the prone position and eyed her targets through the weapon's scope.

The rifle wasn't silenced, though it took several moments after the first ghoul fell dead before the sound of the shot echoed to the rest of the pack. With a spine tingling raspy growl, the rest of them charged towards the two operatives, their clawed fingers raking the air in eager anticipation.

She lined up the next shot, a little trickier now that the targets were moving so sporadically and sent another ghoul spinning into the dirt with the impact. Rising to a kneeling position as the ghouls got ever closer, she fired off another shot just as the ghouls reached them, the hapless creature losing its footing and sliding into her with its limbs flailing. She danced away from the scrambling ghoul and sent another shot down at it to silence it for good.

Sudden pain blossomed in her side as her breath was driven from her lungs. A ghoul had raked its claws along her side as it dove at her, her body unconsciously twisting to avoid most of the blow. She drew her knife from its sheath along her thigh and drove it into the base of the skull of that ghoul before he/she/it could recover, slamming into place and pulling it out in time to meet the next target.

She lunged low, swiping the blade horizontally ahead of her, it's razor edge opening the creature's throat and spraying her with arterial red. She turned her momentum into a spin, reversing her hold on the knife and using the last of her inertia to drive the blade into the sternum of the last ghoul. Her breath came in ragged gasps as the last ghoul scrambled weakly at her back as it fell, pulling the knife free with a fierce yank.

Crouching and turning to examine her surroundings, she couldn't help the noticeable lack of Ashur in her field of vision as well as any further targets. The spectre revealed himself with a crackle as his cloak disengaged, showing the mildly disinterested man sitting atop a boulder not far from the action. Jacky huffed as she wiped the ghoul's blood from her face and joined him, her anger dissipating at his approving nod and brotherly clap on the back.

"Nicely done. Compose yourself. It's time for your next test."

Jacky wanted to scream at him, 'test? that was a test?', but she kept her mouth closed tightly as she simply nodded. She could swear that he shook with amusement at her broadcasted feelings of frustration, which of course only increased her desire to punch the imagined smirk off his face. Before she could fully imagine the satisfying crunch of his face under her fist, he turned and loped off towards the base of the mountain, leaving her to catch up.

They headed for Black Mountain, Ashur expressing curiosity about the radio transmission they had listened to earlier. He was sure that the voices coming across the airwaves shared the same source, a deeply disturbed individual going by the name, Tabitha. The curiosity was tinged with an altruistic edge, as the speaker very clearly advocated violence against 'humans' as if the speaker was not one herself. A mystery that he intended for her to solve.

* * *

He was being held down by cold metal restraints as a cooing female voice calmly explained how he was being vivisected. He jolted up with a scream, his hands frantically brushing off the imagined, grasping metal claws. Confusion warred with the sharp pain which crisscrossed his body. Feeling oddly exposed, he looked down and found himself wearing something like a thin sheet secured in the back with a few ties. It reminded him of, what were they called? Surgery gowns? Something like that? Why was he in one? As he continued to examine his body, his alarm spiked as he found scars on his chest, puffy scar tissue meeting his fingers along his back and yet more on his head. What the hell? Finally looking around to survey his surroundings, he discovered that he was in a tower of some kind overlooking a vast crater wreathed in the darkness of midnight. Technological wonders glittered at him like the twinkling eyes of a succubus. A hazy blue force field restrained him from falling off the edge of the tower into madness, the mesmerizing vista tantalizing him, welcoming him… to the Big MT.


	14. Chapter 13: Old World Blues

Chapter 13:

"Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the former."

~Albert Einstein

* * *

A gloved hand traced sinuously across the black and white hexagonal patterned bodysuit. It hugged her lithe frame like a second skin, nearly every contour of her blossoming sexuality accentuated by the slick material. Pulses of golden light arced in lines along her shoulders and down her thighs in symbiosis with her heartbeat, their purpose as yet a mystery to the young woman. Despite the bludgeoning heat pressing down on the Mojave Desert, the material kept her body exceptionally cool, save for the exposed skin of her head, where heavy drops of sweat coursed their way down her delicate features. Her blonde hair was pulled tight in a ponytail and further held in place by the special eyewear her mentored had provided, the mask-like aperture fitting over her eyes and replacing her natural vision with whorls of primary color that depicted heat instead of visible light.

Large blobs of white-orange revealed what her normal eyesight did not, the forms of several stealthed night-kin patrolling the path up Black Mountain. Though their employer, the unusually loquacious super-mutant Neil, deeply desired the removal of their current leader Tabitha, he was less sanguine about the fate of his brothers. That meant full stealth, the mere thought focusing her mental powers into the stealth generator in her suit, the light crackle of its systems coming online and sheathing her body in a light warping field. Thanks to her goggles, augmented by her psionic perception, the light warping effect of the stealth system did not render her blind as well, which was one of the reasons that cloaking technology was restricted to psionic operatives like ghosts and spectres, and special spacecraft which compensated with specialized scanning equipment.

Ashur had already moved ahead along the trail, his movements evoking not the slightest whisper and if it weren't for her psionic link with her teacher, she would be completely at a loss to place him. She glanced up the ridge where the winding path doubled back as it meandered up the mountain, knowing without seeing that he was perched on the ridge covering her. Jacky took a deep breath, careful to let it out slowly to prevent the noise from giving away her position, then slithered from the metal barricade, slowly and deliberately placing each foot and shifting her body tactically to minimize the supermutant's ability to spot her. Their indifference and lackadaisical patrol route worked to her benefit, making it much easier for the ghost-in-training to make her way up to where her mentor waited and beyond, taking up a position to cover his movement. They leapfrogged like this several times, until they reached the gates to the main compound, a massive radar dish dominating the landscape.

As the two infiltrators knelt in the shadows just shy of the main entrance, Neil casually approached and paused for a moment near their position. Adopting a mock sense of alarm, he began to rush towards the gates and began to loudly exclaim that there were intruders at the entrance to Black Mountain. Neil waved to the guards and led the majority of them down the road. Waiting for a few moments to let Neil and the guards filter past them, Ashur and Jacky left their hiding spot and crept into the compound. Jacky felt a tap on her shoulder, Ashur then pointing up at the scaffolding surrounding the radar. She nodded as she noted the super mutant still on station at the top, a missile launcher slung carelessly over his shoulder as he walked back and forth, bored.

The two infiltrators began to explore the buildings, beginning with what appeared to be a storage shed of some kind. This theory was confirmed when the two quietly entered and found shelves and trunks filled with an eclectic collection of… everything. A corner was home to a trio of plastic garden gnomes while a shelf was carefully stacked with what looked like traffic cones. Still, the pair moved carefully through the storage area until they came upon a spherical robot with extended eye pods and three armatures extending from its bottom resting in a heap on a work bench.

Ashur murmured in surprised curiosity as he bent to examine the machine.

"It's called a Mr. Handy." Jacky helpfully interjected, "pre-war servitor robot."

Though Jacky couldn't tell, Ashur smiled beneath his mask, a rare occurrence for the normally taciturn spectre. He derived an almost whimsical sort of pleasure from mechanical trifles, his chamber on the Hyperion decorated with an odd assortment of clockwork toys and other devices. Jacky started to look around the rest of the room when it became obvious that Ashur wasn't going anywhere for a while.

The spectre picked up each armature, noting the buzzsaw, manipulator arm and blow torch. He examined the eyepods and the thruster assembly that made the robot mobile. He noted a data port just inside the spherical shell and wiggled the case loose, revealing the wires inside. On a hunch, he stripped some wires from his kit and hooked them into his suit's computer. He opened an encrypted channel with the Adjutant.

"Adjutant online. User, Operative First Class Ashur Shalev."

He tapped a few buttons and tied the Adjutant with his suit's systems.

"Analyzing. Servitor robotic unit identified, designation: General Atomics International Type I Model Mr. Handy. Nuclear power unit operational. Running diagnostics…"

Ashur smiled and waited patiently as the Adjutant continued to drone on, "running diagnostics."

"Warning, self-maintenance mode not operational."

Ashur keyed in some more commands and the Adjutant helpfully displayed the faulty system on his HUD. With her to guide his actions, he proceeded to replace the burnt out wiring and cleaned the connectors. Finally, he adjusted a few dip switches and a variable resistor.

With a series of soft burps, the thruster module coughed to life, lifting the Mr. Handy robot clear of the workbench. With a few whirs of reactivating gear assemblies, the armatures came to life and the sensors of the eye pods came to life, irises inside the pods opening and closing as they focused on Ashur.

"Hello. Could you please direct me to Mistress Tabitha?"

Jacky overheard the robot coming back to life and was taken aback at the request it made.

"Tabitha? The night-kin super mutant Tabitha?"

Ashur glanced over at her and shrugged, indicating that they let the robot out of the storage room. Frowning at the strange turn this mission seemed to be taking, she nevertheless asked the Mr. Handy to follow her and opened the door for it. She nearly squealed when the very large shadow of a unique looking night kin suddenly loomed over her and the robot. Ashur was similarly astounded at the super mutant's unorthodox appearance.

"R…Rhonda? Is that you?" Tabitha gasped, clearly surprised to see the robot.

"It is, Mistress Tabitha. How I've missed you so. This stranger here fixed me up right as rain. Is she a friend of yours?"

The blonde be-wigged night kin demurely approached Jacky, "I… don't know how to thank you for bringing Rhonda back to me, Stranger."

She paused for a moment before reaching into a pouch and producing a key.

"Here, take this. I won't be needing it anymore."

"Does this mean you're not going to kill me?" Jacky asked, surprisingly cavalier despite the massive blue muscled monstrosity towering over her.

Tabitha… giggled, sort of.

"No, of course not. I… don't know what I'm going to do with Rhonda back…"

'Rhonda' interjected at that point, "Mistress Tabitha, we should be heading off. Our journey has been much delayed, but we can catch up if we hurry. Come along now."

"Yes, Rhonda."

With that, the two erstwhile companions moved off happily, leaving Jacky and Ashur looking on with bemused expressions.

"That's not how I imagined this training exercise to end." Jacky muttered, half to herself.

Ashur could only shrug in agreement as they continued to watch the effeminate night-kin and her robot friend disappearing in the distance.

* * *

Elder McNamara nursed a pounding headache, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger while Paladin Hardin continued to rail at him, the muttered agreement from several of the other paladins in his main chamber only adding to the throbbing in his head. Edgar towered over the Elder in his power armor, leaning down to plant his hands on the Elder's desk while glaring at him dangerously.

"We can't keep on like this Nolan. These Terrans represent the chance we've been waiting for. The Codex is clear."

"I'm well aware of what the Codex tells us, Edgar, but I am somewhat aggrieved that I have to keep telling you this, but we are surrounded by enemies. The NCR influence since Operation Sunburst has only grown. Caesar's Legion is right across the Colorado and poised to spill into the Mojave. The last thing we need to do is to stick our heads out." McNamara explained through gritted teeth, having different versions of the same argument over and over again stretching his patience to the breaking point.

"If we stay, we fail. Better to try and die then to let the sands of this god forsaken desert swallow us!"

"The lives of everyone who bears the Brotherhood sigil is MY responsibility. The risk is too great. We have no idea what the Terrans are capable of. We lost good Brothers during that fiasco and possibly precipitated a full scale conflict. I can't make this anymore clear, we are NOT ending the isolation. We will NOT confront the Terrans or anyone else for that matter. We will wait, and we will live."

Edgar Hardin drew himself up to his full height, "This isn't living, Nolan. This is not what the Brotherhood is for." He murmured.

"I trust that I have been clear Paladin?" McNamara stated flatly, slightly stressing the man's rank.

"Yes, Elder, perfectly clear." Paladin Hardin turned on his heel and stormed out of the Elder's office, nearly bowling over Head Scribe Taggart when the man failed to get out of his way fast enough. The other two Paladins joined him in his exodus, casting sidelong glances at the Elder as they left.

"I would watch him Elder. I would not be surprised if he made a move to supplant you."

"Yes, Taggart, I am well aware of Hardin's ambitions. Just as I am aware that he wants to be Elder as much as I did when Elijah left. He truly thinks that he is right. I just need to waylay him for a while longer. Just until we have more information."

"I don't know that we have that kind of time Elder." Taggart stated unnecessarily. His eyes firmly fixed on the door the paladins just exited from.

* * *

Senior Knight Lorenzo looked up as Paladin Hardin entered his workshop. He motioned for the agitated paladin to join him at a table away from the other knights. The other knights looked up briefly from their work, then returned to their own tasks.

"Ah, Paladin. I have your helmet here. Just finished realigning the sensors."

The two turned their backs on the others in the room and turned their attention to the aforementioned helmet laying on the workbench. Using the noise of the workshop to mask their discussion, Knight Lorenzo picked up the helm, ostensibly to point out the repairs to the paladin.

"From your expression, I'm guessing that your meeting with the Elder went pretty much like it always does." Lorenzo whispered.

"Yes. McNamara is stuck reliving the past and that fear paralyzes him and by extension, all of us."

"So what will you do now?" Lorenzo asked, almost rhetorically.

"I plan to go anyway. Reconnaissance in force. I already have my team picked out, including a couple of that worm Taggart's scribes."

"Let me guess, Senior Scribe Schuler is in on your little plan."

"It is not a 'little' plan, it's the future of our Chapter." Hardin grated, his ire rising at the poor word choice.

Lorenzo patted the air consolingly, "Relax, I'm with you, remember? I have 3 Knights eager to get out and prove themselves already picked out. They're loyal and skilled."

"Just 3? So few…"

"I didn't want to risk any more than that. These men can be trusted. I am unsure of anyone else."

"It will do," Edgar nodded, "too many and even Nolan will be forced to intervene. I don't want to see us split apart. But sometimes, the hands of fate must be forced."

Lorenzo nodded, handing the paladin his helmet. His interest was in acquiring and studying technology. Though he deeply admired McNamara for taking charge and saving the Chapter from Elijah's betrayal, he could not help but be disgruntled with how few new pieces of technology flowed into his work shop from the scarce and sporadic patrols that were 'occasionally' allowed to leave… and only at night where the chances of finding anything worthwhile were slim. He read and re-read the report about the lone Terran the Brotherhood patrol had foolishly engaged. He almost salivated at the thought of being able to examine the armor or the weaponry their trooper had used. Maybe soon, he would get that chance.

A couple of nights later, a very non-standard patrol departed the bunker and headed straight to the NCRCF, where the earlier confrontation had happened. A dozen paladins, a trio of knights and two scribes marched with determination, unaware that their passage triggered an alert on several of the devices left by Operative Shalev. Their silent warning preceded the Brotherhood column and triggered an alert at the Terran's command center. The adjutant reviewed the scan data, and sent an encrypted feed to the commander. The Brotherhood was on the move.

* * *

The Courier cursed his luck for perhaps the twelfth time since leaving the large dome with the most moronic collection of disembodied scientific brains he had ever met… and his predicament had only deteriorated from there. He horrifyingly discovered that his heart, his spine and the most pressing and astounding of all, his brain, had been removed from his body. Though his spine and heart were safely ensconced in preservative fluid, his brain had apparently been abducted by this Dr. Mobius fellow. He literally had no choice but to retrieve schematics for technologies that these floating brain jars needed against their nemesis in order to get his organs back.

Of course, that wasn't the end of his troubles, oh no. These lost technologies were scattered around the crater in separate laboratories with an astounding array of experiments running amok and seemingly determined to kill him.

Which brings into stark relief the predicament he currently found himself in, standing on an military truck bed surrounded by slobbering people dressed in surgical gowns who had apparently also had their brains removed, but unlike the courier, did not have any kind of connection with their cortexes and were consumed only by the base urges that fired from their brain stems. One of which was apparently to kill the courier.

Maxson sighed for perhaps the hundredth time before aligning another burst of .357 rounds from the K9000 cyberdog gun the scientists had given him. They perforated another 'lobotomite', knocking it backwards onto the dark earth of the crater and sending it into spasms before it finally had the good grace to die. Half an hour later and nearly 300 rounds later, Paul tiredly climbed down from the bed of the truck and tried not to slip on the pile of half-naked corpses. He let the weapon, hot from the huge number of discharges, slip from his grasp to clatter on the ground, the gun actually whimpering when he let it go. He rolled his aching shoulders and flexed his numbed fingers while taking stock of his situation. He cursed loudly and emphatically when several light brown blurs resolved against the background, hurrying towards him.

"Nightstalkers… I hate these fucking things."

Nightstalkers were a breed of creature that had recently made themselves known in the Mojave by attacking and killing people indiscriminately. Now he had a nice big pack running straight for him. He knew it was too much to hope for that the opportunistic predators would content themselves with the all you can eat buffet he had just laid out, unintentionally.

He had found an advanced looking 5.56mm assault rifle with plenty of ammo earlier that day and decided it was time to put it to use. Climbing back up into the bed of the truck, he took up position on the hood of the cab and began to fire into the hissing pack.

* * *

This wasn't happening, this wasn't happening, this wasn't happening...

It was a mantra to his mind, the simply phrase repeated over and over in his head to keep him from collapsing to gibbering madness. He lurched as his stomach emptied out onto the metal decking of the dreaded exit floor of the vault the foul bile assailing his nose and providing a strong reminder that this really was happening.

He was 30 today and as tradition dictated, all residents of the vault on or near their 30th birthday would depart to fanfare to the exit floor, where they would prepare themselves to disembark from the home that had sheltered them for 30 years. Their task was to bring order to chaos. To pave the way for the eventual opening of the vault to the outside world. He had been excited to see his mom and dad again. His sweetheart had gone on last year and he had counted the days until it was his turn.

Finally the day came and he and three other newly minted 30-somthings had taken the elevator up in high spirits. They chatted about what the surface would be like and joked with him about how he intended to spend his first night with Lindsey once he saw her again. Laughing at the good natured ribbing, he barely noticed when the lift had stopped and the hydraulic door hissed open. His mind was tuned to the tawdry imaginings of how he would peel her from her clothes and not on the blood that suddenly flashed across his vision. By the time reality had caught up with him, the 4 had become 2, their comrades having stepped off the elevator into the waiting arms of... it could only be the sandman.

But, the sandman was a folktale! A story told to young kids to get them to behave, not a real terror!

Nevertheless, blood dripped from rusted claws as long as his arm as the man the creature had just slaughtered slid to the floor in a pool of his own viscera. Shock couldn't compete with the terror firing in his nerves as his brain kicked in and forced his legs to run, just run!

He and Andy, the female 30-something that used to work in hydroponics ran together, their footfalls oddly muted. The area was dark, light barely bleeding through dirt caked lights along the corridor. The floor was covered in trash, bits of rubbish and old scraps of paper that he nudged with his foot as they tried to get their bearings. A pathetic mewl escaped from Andy's lips as she pointed a shaking finger at the scrap of paper on his boot. Reaching down to pick it up, he paused when he saw hair and bits of flesh stuck to it. It wasn't paper... it was skin.

They ran and ran and ran. The corridors winding and twisting confusingly, lights flickering ominously and imagined noises added to their panic. Finally, the limits of their biology won out over their fear and they collapsed in a small room that once held supplies. He sank down and drew his knees to his chest, staring without seeing. Andy drew in big gulps of air, trying to catch her breath so that they could resume their frenzied escape attempt.

It just didn't make any sense! This isn't what they had been told their entire lives! This isn't what the overseer himself had promised during his speech at their farewell! What the fuck was this!? He made to ask that very question to Andy when he noted the spots on her face.

She paused and looked at him curiously as he peered at her. She felt something drop onto her face and raised her hand to her cheek. Wiping it away and holding it up to get a better look, her mind froze at the dark blood staining her fingers. Don't look up, please don't look up. Her head and eyes ignored her plea and looked up at the deepening gloom above them. A figure wreathed in brown-red rags hung from chains suspended from the ceiling and fixed her with its gaze. Her scream echoed after him as he ran from the room, tears and snot mixing together as they streamed down his face.

He had lost all sense of time when he finally collapsed. The cool metal wall feeling very comforting to his overheated face as he rested. He pressed his palms against the metal and felt the grooves beneath his fingers. He backed away and looked up and had the most sublime sense of relief he had ever experienced wash over him as he realized that he had made it to the massive vault door.

A giggle escaped his lips as the euphoria competed with the still lingering fear of the sandman. He looked around, desperation lending his tired body vigor as he searched for the vault door mechanism.. there!

The console beckoned to him like the outstretched arms of a lover. He ran up to it and scanned it, trying to determine how to get it to work. He saw a port that accepted the console cable from his pip-boy and with a sigh of relief, he unplugged the cable and stretched it out. He went to place it in the port when Andy suddenly fell on top of the console and glared at him accusingly. He fell back and she came with him, her body flopping on top of him in a grotesque mockery of sex as her fluids leaked all over him. He screamed as he pushed at her, her blood making his hands slippery as they dribbled out onto him. Half of her face was missing, as if the flesh had been torn from her skull leaving half of a macabre grin. One of her eyes had popped, the fluid running down the ruin of her face as she grinned away at his futile attempts to escape her.

With a surge of disgust fueled strength, he hurled her body away and rocketed up to the console, grasping it as tightly as his gore soaked hands would allow. The sudden pull made him scramble in desperate fear as an unholy force grasped his legs and pulled mightily. He screamed and cried and begged as he fought to hold on. His screams echoed around the chamber before devolving into simpering mewls and a series of meaty slaps. A final croak escaped his lungs as the lower part of his body was torn from the upper, thankfully ending the pain and struggle.

Driven by the commands which tortured its every waking moment, the sandman vivisected the bodies and collected their pip-boys. He dumped their remains into the recycler, which would process them into meal for the vault's consumption and placing the pip-boys onto a series of conveyors belts, which would carry them into storage for issue to another generation of vault dwellers. Only after his tasks were complete did the voices finally fall silent, and the sandman was able to seek his rest.


	15. Chapter 14: Dogs of War

CHAPTER 14: Dogs of war

"It is well that war is so terrible, otherwise we should grow too fond of it."

~Robert E. Lee

* * *

Two days! Two fucking days roasting in this heat with nothing to do but pace back and forth, blasting the occasional mole rat with her lever-action shotgun while her pale skin blistered under the Mojave sun. The impulsive red head cursed again as she made another circuit around the old drive-in, her boots wearing a path in the hard baked earth.

"It's no use," Veronica stated, standing up from the weird device and arching to stretch her sore back, "I can't seem to get anywhere with this thing."

"It took you two days of trying to work on that thing to find out that you don't know enough to work on that thing?!" Cass hissed, beyond irritated.

"It took me a day to crack the encryption on this thing just to know what it does… or did. It took all of today to realize that I can't do anything with it that will bring Paul back or send us to where he is."

"Do you know where he is?" Cass asked, her tone losing its edge as worry wrinkled her forehead.

"This thing is a transponder. When active, it scans the subject… whoever is standing closest to it, and if the subject meets whatever parameters set by the people who set it here, hair color, dress size, fabulous fashion sense, whatever, the transponder activates and a unit somewhere else zaps them to wherever it is. And no, I don't know where it is."

"Well great, we'll never live it down as the two stupid bitches who lost the courier!"

Veronica looked indignant and was about to offer a scathing retort, but had to concede that in this instance, they were in fact, stupid bitches.

"From what Paul told me, and what little I saw travelling with some of them, the Terrans do have some impressive technology. I think we should go to their encampment like we planned and explain things to them. Maybe they can figure this thing out."

Cass didn't have any better ideas to offer, so she acquiesced to Veronica's reasoning and started to pack up her gear for their journey.

* * *

"We haven't seen anybody in a while… maybe the monsters have stealth suits too?"

The courier tried to block out the inane chatter coming from the Mark II Stealth suit he had reconstructed and augmented in the X-13 research facility. At first, he was amused by the mildly flirtatious AI in the stealth suit, the light banter easing the distemper he felt at being lobotomized and sent on a fool's errand. But over time, her incessant chatter irked him to distraction.

"Hey! Who turned out the lights?"

Paul felt a cold shiver trickle down his spine as he ducked behind a boulder and tried to steady his breathing. The voice was so loud that it seemed as though whoever asked the question was uncomfortably close. He peered around the natural barricade, hoping that the stealth suit was doing its job. His heart hammered in his chest like a rabid animal locked in a cage. Walking in an odd stilting gait was a human skeleton wearing a full body hazard suit of some kind. The skull grinned at him from behind a dirt streaked glass dome as it rattled around inside the suit.

"Hey! Who turned out the lights?"

He gasped involuntarily and had to fight the urge to brown his pants when the skeleton jerked to a halt and turned to his hiding spot with uncanny alacrity. The dead man raised a laser rifle and began to fire while to running with a clumsy gait towards him.

The courier's fight or flight instinct was pegged firmly in the flight category. He turned and pumped his legs just as fast as he could.

"Sneaking done. Fighting now." His suit proclaimed.

"Yeah, no shit." He snarled in between gasping breaths. The ground rose up in front of him, loose scree and gravel flying back from his boots as they fought the loose ground for traction. Lady luck smiled on him, or more likely, laughed her ass off as his foot flew out from under him on a particularly loose bit of rock. His body rocketed forward and down, his chest impacting hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. He mentally cursed, not knowing that laser fire stitched the area where his head was moments before, his ungainly fall saving him from being perforated with beams of red heat.

Grabbing hand holds in the loose gravel, he scrambled on all fours and rolled, whipping out his 45, "A Light Shining in Darkness" and aimed in the center of the shadow which loomed over him. He let the weapon blaze seven times, each round thundering into the hazard suit and forcing the macabre figure into a comical backward dance that ended when the strings of this marionette were cut and it landed at the base of the rise in a twisted heap of limbs.

Paul tried to calm down, letting his lungs relax enough to draw in the gulpfuls of air he was desperate for. Finally, as he drank in huge gasps of air, he sat and stared down at the nightmarish caricature motionless below him. At last, pragmatism and no small portion of avarice propelled him to his feet and led him to examine the skeleton. He was no scientist, but it appeared that the suit was moving the skeleton, and not the other way around. God, this person had died trapped in this suit and the suit decided to waltz around with its occupant still trapped within. It was another example of the depraved experiments those brain jars conducted over the years. It steeled his determination to apply some "moral discretion" to their future activities… and looking over at the distant dome lit up in red, he came up with just the way to do it.

* * *

First a sheriff, then an inmate, now a power-suited instrument of wasteland justice… not unlike one of those Brotherhood types that used to prowl around these parts. Though at the moment, his CMC-300 power armor was resting in its cradle at the barracks. He was dressed simply in the dark blue uniform of the Raynor's Raiders and carried a C-7 pistol in a holster across his chest. He smiled sardonically as he pondered the whimsy of fate which brought him to this particular place. He lit up a cigarette and contentedly let the curls of smoke waft upwards into the starry sky. He gazed out to the muted glow of New Vegas on the horizon as he puffed, feeling truly good for the first time since first donning the sheriff badge years ago. Finishing, he flicked the cigarette off into the darkness as a twinkle in the corner of his vision caught his attention. Peering into the darkness he spies it again, a series of twinkling light in a pattern. Sudden alarm grips him as the implications slam home. He turns just as the base klaxons activate, bathing the area in red warning lights. The loud wavering alarm driving all torpidity from his limbs. He runs towards the barracks, meaning to get into his armor just as the sound of the first crack of gunfire penetrates the warbling sirens.

* * *

Griff spills out of the elevator, vainly attempting to button up his coat while rushing to the combat information console in the center of the bridge of the command center.

"Report!" He barks, not caring who answers him.

"Multiple Terran bio-signs approaching our position from multiple vectors." The adjutant deadpanned.

Reaching the holographic display, he zooms in on the local area, glancing up as Sharon rushes up to the table after him.

Red dots infected the green grid map of his operational area. At least twelve groups of about twenty contacts were moving swiftly towards his base, now that they were discovered, losing all pretense of stealth.

A sound like peas flicked against tin vibrated on the armored glass of the observation deck, the commander looked and saw brief flashes of small arms fire bouncing off the armored glass.

"All non-combatants, fall back to the command center. Marines, to your bunkers. Weapons free, engage at will." He ordered, sharing a worried look with Sharon, who gripped the table hard enough to whiten her knuckles. Closing his eyes and letting out the breath he didn't know he was holding, he steeled himself for a moment before spinning from the table, veering around it to grab Sharon in a fierce but brief kiss before sweeping from the room, dazing his poor wife. He fists the elevator control and looks upon his beloved while the steel doors close and steals her from his sight.

* * *

"Aw fuck, aw fuck, aw fuck fuck fuck." Hannigan whispered to himself, trembling in his CMC-405 "medic" hard skin and trying not to piss into his armor, especially in front of the wild Vasquez and the two other marines in the bunker with him.

"Shut it Hannigan!" Vasquez roars, "Open fire!"

The three marines let loose a torrent of 8mm death from their Impalers, the magnificent roar echoing in the metal confines of the defensive structure. He thinks he hears screams from the Legion soldiers, but it just as easily could be the tinny rain of spent shell casings as they tinkled onto the ground and rolled into the reloading feeds.

He chances a glance out of the firing port he is closest to just as the screaming face of a legionnaire blurs past. He watches, transfixed by the spectacle, as legion men rush forward in waves only to be devastated by the sheer volume of kinetic death slashing into them. Blood and viscera cascade into the air as bodies are unable to compensate for the level of violence being done to them. Hannigan feels a gnawing worry in the pit of his stomach as he realizes that despite their horrendous casualties, the legion force is getting closer and closer.

Seemingly leaping free from the press of falling comrades, a single legionnaire rushes past the shield of bodies and throws himself onto the bunker. Too late, Vasquez realizes his intent and opens her mouth to voice a warning just as the explosives strapped to him explode.

The ringing in her ears is like an ice pick straight into her brain as she picks herself up and tries to get oriented. Her eyes, slowly focusing past the haze, sees the massive hole the explosive had rent in her bunker and tossed her marines back in its indiscriminate fury. Her HUD shows that all of them are still alive despite being blasted. She breathes a grateful sigh of relief just as a screaming man decked out in sports gear rushes through the torn metal and slams into her with a sledgehammer. She rocks back under the impact and backhands the idiot almost disdainfully. The diminishing cry of the dying man as he flies away is replaced by yet more screams as legion men pour into the breach.

Snarling in hate, Vasquez stomps over to where her chain gun fell and snatches up the weapon, bracing it while toggling off the safety.

"Let's rock!"

The roar of the Impalers was nothing compared to the metal storm unleashed by her favored weapon. The fire bisects half of the intruders before their minds could comprehend what was happening. Despite her furious defense, more men rush into the small space, backing her into the rear hatch. She feels her anger spiking as one of her marines, who was a little too slow at shaking off the disorientation, has his visor pried open by a metal rod wielded by 3 of Caesar's men and is stabbed in the face with their rusted machetes. The flatline echoes in the other's helmets and lets the team know that one of theirs has fallen.

Hannigan struggles to both ignore the finality of the tone and pull the other marine with him as he tries to squeeze past Vasquez and out into the open air. Vasquez shifts forward, giving the ailing medic and his patient the room they need as she continues to pour fire at the veritable army rushing into the breach. They are like zerglings, mindlessly rushing forward, heedless to the destruction being visited upon them.

Forcing his way outside, he lays the marine down and injects him with a cocktail of chemical stimulants, the marine's limbs jerking and writhing as the liquid fire courses through his veins. Shaking off the fugue state he rises, nods his appreciation to the medic and strides forward to add his fire to his squad leaders'. A particularly loud ping reverberates as pieces of nano-forged steel fly in a jet of blood from the marine's leg, followed by the retort from a very large caliber weapon. Normally, their armor would protect them even from .50 caliber rounds, but the explosion compromised the hardskin and illustrates just how vulnerable the marines are. The marine keeps his feet under him, despite the blood swiftly dribbling from the hole in his thigh and continues to fire.

For the second time in as many minutes, Hannigan prepares to treat his comrade, silently sending up a plea to whichever god is listening to get them through this nightmare.

* * *

Meyers slams the bunker hatch closed behind him and joins West and 2 other marines as they lay down fire on the men trying to breach the base's defensive line. He saw the explosion knocking out one of the bunkers and realized that the Legion had prepared this assault well.

Spotting more explosives laden runners rushing just behind the wall of meat protecting their advance, he shouts a warning to his comrades who begin to focus their fire on the suicide bombers. First one, then another man falls screaming into the dirt, their legs blown off with precision bursts. He lines up a third man and sends a trio of spikes into his torso, the sudden flash of light making him instinctively avert his eyes just as a wave of heat and force slaps into him. Looking up, he grins as he sees that the explosion vaporized several men. His celebratory mood is short lived as he spots a fourth bomber crawling through the muck and filth just feet away from the base of the bunker. He angles his weapon down but too late, his visor filling with white and his back slamming into the unyielding surface of the bunker floor. Scrambling back to his feet, he rises just in time to slam the stock of his weapon into a charging soldier, smirking in satisfaction at the crunch of shattering teeth and jaw.

The fight descended into a whirlwind of frenzied melee, the marines laying all about them with augmented punches and kicks while legion soldiers sought out any weak points in their armor. Meyers never noticed the transition from inside the bunker to just in front of it, the heat and din of battle blinding him to all else. One screaming face was replaced by another, and another after that as the battle wore on. The storm of hate and metal continued, the press of their enemies keeping the marines from utilizing their devastating weaponry. He was forced back as the press of bodies surged against him, too fast, too close! Each of the marines was an island in the raging sea of legion red, and Meyers didn't know how long they could last.

* * *

Griff stood atop the ruined bunker, the bodies of two of his men slumped ignominiously within the bunker beneath his armored boots. After donning his hard skin, he linked up with Martinez and the two of them had rushed to this bunker, only to arrive too late for the two young marines within. They were locals, men who had come seeking a better life for themselves. Now their days were over, their lives utterly spent defending a scrap of dirt from an army of slavers. Using his bayonet, he skewers another legionnaire and heaves his body aside, just in time to blast another man scrambling up the bunker with a single shot and kicking him off the sloped edge.

He ducks instinctively as the fourth bunker erupts in fire, spraying dirt, metal and flesh outward in a grotesque fountain. Checking his HUD, he curses as another one of his men flatlines, the massive explosion killing the hapless marine before he could escape from the breached structure. Of the twelve marines that began this battle, only half remain. He is particularly anguished at the loss of West, the young man's laughing face emerging from the depths of his memory to taunt him with his death.

"All units, fall back to the command center!" He barks into the mic, the necessary order before the remaining marines became cut off from support.

He turns and surveys the field, raising his gauss rifle and sending a sustained line of fire into the flanks of the enemy forces trying to swamp Meyers and his men. Raising his fist in acknowledgement, the former sheriff links up with the other survivor from his squad and they force their way through the opening the commander had paved for them.

"Adjutant, give me an enemy count."

"Yes, Commander. Scanning… sixty two enemy units are still combat effective."

He ran towards the command center, heedless of the potshots crumping into the dirt all around him as he joined up with the remaining defenders.

Vasquez, Martinez, Meyers, Hannigan and 2 others remain. They huddle in the opening of the resource collection ramp and wait for the final push. Compared to the bunker, they are both woefully exposed and unable to use the auto-feeders to replenish their ammunition.

The Legion masses but doesn't rush them as they did before. This time they huddle behind every piece of defilade they can find and begin to pepper the Terrans with gunfire, tossing the occasional grenade. Griff takes careful aim and sends a Legion man with a crop of horizontal hair atop his helmet into oblivion. His shot seems to break the dam, as every marine lets loose a fusillade of fire, switching to their sidearms when their rifles click on empty.

* * *

Paladin Hardin held up his fist, halting the Brotherhood advance as they approached within the last couple of miles to the Terran's encampment. Turning up the auditory gain on his helmet, he listens for a moment, concerned at the distant noises and flashes of light they had spied as they made their approach. An explosion is unmistakable, the flash lighting up the sky and the rumble clearing emanating from the Terran's outpost. He orders the team forward, double-timing them.

Though not particularly swift, the power suits augment their user's strength and endurance, allowing them to maintain a good pace over long distances. So it was, only a few minutes later that the Brotherhood reconnaissance force crests the ridge overlooking the former NCRCF and are taken aback by what they see.

Fires rage in every corner, the thick coils of smoke pouring from the gutted remains of buildings adding a darkening pall to the battlefield. Hardin notes the remaining Terrans pinned down in the lee of their primary structure, facing off against no less than three score of those accursed Caesar's Legion. His respect for the Terrans rise as he notes how many legionnaires it took to bring them to this point, the piles of enemy dead speaking highly of the stranger's technology and combat prowess. He wavers for a time, uncertain what to do in light of this new development.

Making a snap decision, he raises his laser rifle and waves his men into a firing line along the ridge. Once deployed, he marches forward and begins to rain laser hued death onto the forces below.

* * *

Griff wonders at the sudden ebb in the Legion's assault. He risks coming out of cover slightly to peer out at the Legion, ignoring the disapproving hiss from Martinez.

"Marines! Advance!" He shouts, once the surprising turn registers in his mind.

The others only allow confusion to slow their actions for a moment before joining their commander into a firing advance on the legion position. As they clear the opening of the command center and get an unobstructed view, they suddenly understand why. The Legion assault has wavered almost unto breaking from the heavy fire pouring into their rear from an advancing line of power armored soldiers bearing the winged gear crest of the Brotherhood of Steel.

The battle peters out just as Griff climbs atop an overturned SCV, the smoke clearing just enough for him to see the entirety of the Legion force wiped out where they stood. He looks up at the staggered line of Brotherhood men before him, his heart hammering in his chest at the undepleted state of their forces compared to the badly mauled men at his side. One of their number peels off from their line and walks slowly towards him, clamping his weapon slowly and deliberately onto his back as he approaches. Commander Johnson watches him for a moment before leaping down from the makeshift barricade and dropping his now empty rifle into the hands of a protesting Vasquez.

The two men halt with mere feet between them and regard each other intently. Paladin Hardin lifts his helmet free with a hiss, gracing the commander with a look at his unarmored face. Griff knows that he took an awful risk exposing himself like that, and ponders it for a moment before likewise lifting his visor to look at the man unobstructed.

"So, here we are."

* * *

 **A/N:** I am currently working on updating a previous chapter (11) while I write the outline for Chapter 15. Fair warning, there isn't a lot of 'action' in the next chapter. But there are several key steps taking place soon. Stay tuned and thanks for reading.


	16. Chapter 15: Darkness Rises

Chapter 15: Darkness rises

"No one saves us but ourselves. No one can and no one may. We ourselves must walk the path."

~Gautama Buddha

* * *

The early morning sun crested the ridge to the east, casting striating shadows across the desert floor like a living carpet of writhing serpents. A profound yawn split the redhead's face for the fifth or sixth time since she and Veronica had departed from their camp. The Brotherhood scribe glanced over at the former caravan master, wondering how exactly she managed her business with her almost violent resistance to getting up before noon on any given day. It was a mixed blessing that her traveling companion ran out of booze days ago; the trade-off being that though now sober and thus easier to deal with, she bitched about just about everything with a surprising amount of vim. That morning though, they had travelled in relative silence, Cass content to merely grumble to herself.

Blessedly free from the constant stream of invectives, Veronica found the rare opportunity to day dream a little, with visions of frilly dresses waltzing about in a grand ballroom with an equally resplendent Christine ghosting a wistful smile onto her face. A lace covered buffet table with the mountains of the gooey chocolately goodness of Fancy Lads snack cakes on silver platters. Her paramour, pressing her onto the table as their mouths met, the hot breath and passionate hunger…

She almost walked directly into Cass's outstretched arm, irritation flaring instantly at being cut off so abruptly from her reverie. Holding her tongue for the moment, she followed Cass's intense gaze to the multiple columns of greasy black smoke curling into the sky. Panic gripped her as she realized that the source of that smoke could only be the Terran's compound. Abandoning all pretense of caution, she and Cass both broke into a run, wild speculation urging speed into their limbs.

* * *

The light from the new day stole across the desert and bathed the battered Terran forces in soft crimson as they stared down the platoon of Brotherhood soldiers. Head Paladin Hardin, his face set in a grim mask, stared at the Terran commander, the man holding himself tall and meeting his stare unflinchingly despite his obvious exhaustion from the battle.

"Raiders, stand down." The captain brusquely ordered, somewhat diffusing the mounting tension between the two groups.

"Bourgeois, you and Hannigan gather the civilians and start triage, take a marine with you in case any of the Legion men are still alive. Luca, Dominic, get these fires out and load up the KIA's for burial."

Paladin Hardin stood silently while Commander Johnson issued his orders, then came to a decision that he hoped would breathe new life into his beloved Chapter.

"Commander," he called out, getting the other man's attention, "we stand ready to assist."

Griff cocked his head quizzically for a moment, and then nodded in grateful relief, "we would be grateful for any assistance…?"

"Paladin Hardin, Mojave Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel."

"Captain Griff Johnson, Raynor's Raiders." The Terran replied.

With the introductions done with, Paladin Hardin turned to his men and had the scribes assist with the casualties and the knights with the SCV operators. He had his paladins form a defensive perimeter around the encampment to keep watch for further enemy movement.

The Commander's comm bead suddenly chirped, looking away from the Brotherhood men for a moment, he glanced down at his HUD and saw in incoming transmission from Sergeant Petreko. Shit! He had actually forgotten about her recon mission. He had detailed a SCV and a marine he had detailed to help solidify her position in Primm after she had dealt with some escaped convicts holding the town hostage.

"Go ahead Sergeant."

"Commander, the engineer and marine have arrived. The townspeople are allowing us to use some empty space behind the 'Vicky and Vance' casino to build our outpost. The NCR are unhappy but are keeping to their side of the town for now. We have enough salvageable material here to build a supply depot and a bunker, but for anything else, we will have to range further afield. The townspeople tell me that there is an old drive-in not far from here that has many wrecks that can be salvaged for their metal. There is also a highway patrol station which may have more."

"Good work, sergeant. I have some bad news though. I need you to leave Meyers with one marine and a SCV there to continue while you hoof it back to homebase. We were attacked in the night and there were casualties."

The comm was silent but for a faint background crackle for many moments before her voice came back on the line.

"How many did we lose sir?"

"7 are confirmed KIA. West is one of them."

"Acknowledged sir, we're moving out now."

She cut the comm channel and braced herself against the corrugated metal shed the former sheriff had lived in. Her face felt flushed and she fought away the furious tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. Rubbing her eyes angrily, she tersely ordered the two mentioned marines to secure the area while the SCV got to work. The SCV operator took one look at the sergeant's face and climbed aboard his vehicle without comment, readying to tear down the structures the townsfolk had pointed out to them for scrap. She grabbed the third marine with a curt gesture and they set off without preamble back to the compound, her anger and frustration lending her speed.

Meyers watched her leave, concern etched on his face. What force could have threatened the Terran's like that? Only the Legion or the NCR had that kind of firepower. He gnawed on his cigarette in worry, breathing deeply before turning his attention to the two men in his charge. He nodded to the SCV operator and waved for him to continue while he and the marine, a local named Barrett, moved through the town. A skulking figure caught his attention as they passed in front of the Vicky and Vance casino, a craven soul bedecked in leather armor with slicked back hair. The man seemed to shrink as he turned to confront him, his eyes darting left and right as if searching for an escape.

"Identify yourself citizen." Meyers barked, the other marine flanking him and scowling at the pathetic figure before them.

"B... Be... Beagle. Deputy Beagle."

* * *

His bloody hand grasped the loose rock at the top of the ridge just as the sun crested it and bathed the ruin of his face and upper body in stark relief. His right arm was a mangled ruin and hung limp and useless at his side as he scrambled up and over the cliff side. He collapsed, the sun baking the blood dry all over his body, most of it his own. His one good eye focused on the young boy that knelt beside the centurion, the slave careful to not look directly at him even in his depleted state.

His voice broke and issued from his throat like a rasp across aged wood, "Return. Inform the Legate that we have failed. All are dead. The Brotherhood of Steel stood with them. Go."

The boy slave rose and scurried away without a word, leaving the dying centurion to gaze upwards into the clear blue sky. He watched as birds circled high above him, knowing that they would soon descend and feast upon his corpse. He did not begrudge his impending death, but found his mind wandering back to when he was a boy. He had not thought of his childhood for decades. He remembered running wild and free, his father laughing at his antics as he worked on repairing their home. His mother and three sisters gathered water from the river while the other hunters called to his father, holding up their prize. His tribe was free once, and now he would soon join them. He smiled as the realization came to him… he was going to be free soon. Pushing himself up from the dirt, he rose to a kneeling position and felt almost giddy that his last act would be as a free man. He drew his long hunting knife and watched the sunlight play over the gleaming metal. With a profound breath, he plunged the cold steel just below his sternum and nicked his heart. The pain was profound and sublime. His heart thundered for a few more beats before there was no longer any blood to pump. Then, he died.

* * *

" _The women of New Vegas ask me a lot if there's a Mrs. New Vegas. Well, of course there is. You're her. And you're still as perfect as the day we met."_

"He did WHAT?!" The Elder's incredulous question echoed fiercely in his office as the man bolted to his feet from the report just delivered by a nervous scribe.

"Paladin Hardin has…"

"I heard you the first time!" McNamara cut him off, in no mood to spare the young scribe's feelings.

The Elder glowered at the young man, as if casting the blame for the Paladin's actions on him. He had known that Hardin would do something, perhaps even recruit the courier whose name had caused quite a stir on his arrival. But this?! He took a moment to collect his thoughts, then turned back to the scribe, whose pale face served as an appropriate litmus for the Elder's mood.

"De-activate Dervish. Get me Paladin Hardin on the radio, now!"

The scribe rushed from the room before he fully took stock of what the Elder had just ordered. Turn off Dervish? The system is what protected them from electronic targeting and had helped keep them hidden from prying eyes for years following the debacle of Operation: Sunburst. For him to order it turned off now so that they could contact Hardin's team… The scribe did not envy the Head Paladin.

The knights, scribes and paladins he passed eyed him curiously as he hurried through the Bunker. It didn't take him long to reach the control center for the Dervish camouflage system and due to the diminished nature of the chapter, the room was manned only by a fellow scribe, who contented herself with scribbled notes in her well worn notebook. She raised an eyebrow at his disheveled appearance, but did not interrupt him as he gripped the console and fought to catch his breath.

When at last he was reasonably assured that his voice wouldn't break, he gripped the microphone for the Bunker's PA system, "By order of the Elder, Dervish de-activation imminent. Repeat, by order of the Elder, Dervish is to be de-activated.

Throughout the Bunker every man, woman and child paused and looked up in surprise. The stunned silence had an oppressive quality, like the calm before a storm head broke. If that storm had a herald, it was lit on the face of the elder as he stalked through the halls, his anger as palpable as thunder. The female scribe tossed her notebook aside as the elder stormed into the room, sweeping her nervous companion aside as he took control of the radio. He switched it to broadcast on the Head Paladin's frequency and looked expectantly at the trembling young man. Swallowing, the scribe reached the Dervish control board and keyed in the command to halt the fans that stirred the chaff like sand and rendered most radar scans worthless.

Outside the bunker, the howling winds that kept the area cloaked in a sea of shifting sands suddenly died, the haze slowly lighting as the particles meandered back to earth. Hidden Valley was exposed.

* * *

The old woman gasped and clutched at her chest as pain blossomed like a spring flower with razor blades for petals. Colors kaleidoscoped through her vision as her heart labored like a beleaguered animal trapped in a hunter's snare. Her milky eyes widened and a moan escaped her lips, like a mourning zephyr escaping from an opened tomb.

The colors resolved into sharp focus, leaving her panting and sweating beneath a blood-red sky, the ground all around her vibrating in convulsive ecstasy. The low rumble was like distant thunder rolling across the horizon, reaching out with a massive hand to grasp the frail old woman and make the earth shift and sway beneath her slippered feet. Dust rose in a massive plume as a mass of writhing, spitting… demons carpeted the earth. Their claws tore at the ground as they surged across the plains, horned alien monstrosities that covered the land like a blanket.

She could hear them now, snarling and growling with animalistic intent, a swarm of mindless bestiality covering the land and consuming everything in its path. As they approached, she found that she was rooted to the spot, unable to move aside from the ever increasing vibration that threatened to rattle her old bones to pieces. Her head snapped to the side at a sudden threat overwhelming her sensibility. One of the creatures had outpaced the others and was leaping for her, its wings spread to slow its fall and talons extended to rend and tear at her flesh. A brief flash of pain as its talons sunk into withered flesh, then blessed darkness.

The vision was gone, leaving the flustered woman shaking on her bed and grappling with a dark and shapeless mass above her.

"Mama Murphy! Stop it! It's me, Sturges!"

"Sturges?" She croaked, finally coming to grips with reality.

"Mama…" Sturges ran a greasy hand through his hair as he fell back onto a chair at her bedside, "I thought Nora talked you out of the chems? You wouldn't be having these visions if you had quit."

Mama Murphy ignored the man's accusatory tone and folded her legs under her arms to rock herself on the old mattress.

"Oh, it weren't the chems this time kid. I'm clean. The sight… it's never been like this before. Like it was desperate for me to see something. Like it needed me to know… what was coming."

Sturges stood up and held Mama Murphy gently by her shoulders, "What's coming Mama?"

"The Swarm."

* * *

"Insubordination! Treason! Stupidity! What were you thinking Hardin! How dare you put us all in danger like this?!"

Paladin Hardin grimaced at the reverberating recriminations slamming into his eardrums and echoing around the interior of his helmet. He cast the offending armor aside after hastily unsealing it and glaring at it with rancor.

"He sounds a bit pissed" Griff remarked, drawing closer to the paladin and away from the others as they continued to perform the after battle assessments.

"I took an awful risk coming out here. But I had believed, and continue to believe, that our order is dying. We are withering away locked underground and more-over, are failing in our mission to safeguard humanity from itself while trying to ensure our temporary safety."

Griff held up a hand forestalling any further pontification from the paladin, "Veronica helped me to understand your situation Paladin."

As if summoned by the mention of her name, the scribe walked up to the duo, concern creasing her forehead, her usual easy smile lost to the worry lines mapping a geography of stress on her face. A few steps behind her, Cass sauntered aimlessly, trying and failing to appear nonchalant.

"Scribe." Hardin nodded tersely at the young woman.

"Paladin Hardin." Veronica returned, without a hint of her normal sauciness.

Griff rubbed his face wearily, unsure if the he was making the grime on his face better or worse from his equally filthy hands. He fixed the paladin with reddened eyes for a drawn out moment before sighing heavily, "I have taken into account Ms. Santangelo's testimony. Plus, you helped out us out of a real bind back there. I am willing to overlook the incident that took place when your patrol assaulted my man. The real question, is where do we go from here?"

Paladin Hardin gazed thoughtfully at his gauntleted hands, his eyes flickering as they took in every detail. When his next words came, they seemed delicate, soft as if a strong enough breeze would break and dissipate them.

"The Brotherhood has always stood for protecting mankind from the same folly that almost led to our destruction. Our methods are not cherished and for years we did not care, for our mission transcended social concerns. But we have reached the point where not only are we failing in our mission, our isolation and paranoia has further depleted an already weary and almost spent Chapter. We are so few now… Scribes project that we will die out as a Chapter over the next few generations."

Hardin inspected the open palm of his power armored hand, taking in the marred and scratched surface. He sighed and clenched his fist before continuing, "That patrol that your people first encountered, I wish I could say that their actions were completely colored by that desperation, and it did play a role… but to be fair, what they did is not far removed from how we've always operated."

"So aside from us arriving here, what changed?" Griff asked quietly, gently prodding the man.

"Courier Six."

Griff waited to see if more was forthcoming, the far away look in the paladin's eyes speaking as much to his feelings as the tremor in his voice.

"Do you know of our history? Our founding?"

Griff shook his head, Veronica hadn't gone into detail about their history.

"Our order was founded by Roger Maxson, after he witnessed the destruction wrought by our technology outpacing our humanity. He was the first High Elder, and that title has passed down through his descendents throughout our history. It was widely believed that his only living descendent is Arthur Maxson, who was sent east to be fostered by Elder Lyons by his mother. When the Courier arrived and introduced himself."

"I see, Paul Maxson."

Paladin Hardin nodded, "Yes, after he told us his name... well, we were skeptical. Moreso because the courier seemed unaware of his own lineage. Blood tests confirmed it. He is Roger Maxson's heir. I spoke to him at length, about Operation Sunburst, about our dying chapter. He genuinely seemed to care. The council decided not to confront him about his heritage... at least, not yet. We needed time to think. He would have changed everything you see. He has the authority. He could re-write the Codex if he wanted, though the loyalty of my fellow Brothers may be tested if he deviated too much. But the simple fact is, we face change. Either we adapt or we fade into the annals of history."

They continued to talk earnestly as their people worked around them. Eventually, noting the sun rising high into the sky and the heat beginning to bear down on them, Griff motioned for the small troupe to adjourn into the command center. As they made their way through the metal structure, Hardin could barely restrain his curiosity at the plethora of technology all around him, his fingers itching to reach out and touch consoles and interact with the obvious examples of Terran ingenuity. Finally, the group arrived in the heart of the command center, the blue flickering hologram of the adjutant greeting them as they stepped off the lift.

Hardin gaped at the artificial intelligence, noting how superior this entity was to any analog he had encountered in his long and storied career.

"Adjutant, contact the Brotherhood headquarters, let's see if we can get their Elder in on this conversation." Griff remarked, momentarily shaking Hardin from his stupor.

"Paladin, if you could give the adjutant the frequency?"

He nodded in response and rattled off the one of older but still valid military frequencies the brotherhood used. Within moments, the adjutant confirmed a live radio feed with the bunker, and minutes later, a still irate Elder McNamara was on the line.

For most of the remaining day, and into the night, the Terran Commander spoke with Paladin Hardin, Veronica occasionally inserting translations for Griff's benefit. Eventually, Elder McNamara was brought into the fold, his barely simmering anger palpable even through the radio. As they spoke, his anger did abate somewhat, though it was tempered by the suspicion and overriding sense of distrust he had held even before Elder Elijah's betrayal.

By the time dawn broke over the horizon, Sgt Petreko arrived and began to supervise the burial detail for their fallen. A black column of smoke marred the glowing sky as the bodies of the legionnaires were disposed of. The others prepared to relocate the camp closer to Hidden Valley, as part of a temporary agreement with the Brotherhood to solidify their burgeoning alliance. The Terrans had hope that with the knowledge their scribes had, the lack of vespene could be solved and they would be that much closer to being able to depart this god-awful world.

Commander Griff was torn though, for once the immediate issues were addressed, Veronica and Cass explained the Courier's absence. Griff collapsed onto some crates stacked haphazardly in the shadow of the command center and cradled his head in his grimy hands, exhaustion making his head pound in tandem with the sonorous drum of his heart. He pushed the many difficulties plaguing his people aside and focused on stilling the trembling of his hands.

The sun had inexplicably migrated across the vast brown sky when Griff was jolted from his reverie by the gentle hand slipping into his. His tired eyes met the green gaze of his wife and held it like a drowning man using a lifeline to keep his head above uncaring ocean waves. She rested her forehead against his, taking the moment to still the world around them and take comfort from the contact. He smiled at her gratefully as he leaned back and rolled his tired shoulders.

He stood up and looked into the expectant looks of the Terrans and locals that had slowly migrated into a ring around him. Hoping for guidance, for leadership.

"Look at us, eh? Stranger's in a strange land and seemingly beset on all sides by creatures determined to end us. Sounds like another day on the farm back home."

A muffled laugh rippled amongst the Terrans at the comparison.

"Whether by zergling or legionairre, sometimes by the skin of our teeth, we come out on top. Thanks to our fallen brothers and sisters, by the courage and determination lit by the promise of liberty, we always come out on top! I won't promise you that we'll make it home anytime soon, but no matter what, we will stand together here or anywhere! Get your asses moving! We're moving out!"

Though not met with any cheering, the Terrans and even some of the locals smiled and nodded at the speech and moved to finalize the preparations to move the command center and barracks to Hidden Valley. The supply depots would be scuttled as they were not equipped to be moved.

* * *

A few hours later, the white hot flare of the Atlas boosters ignited the night and marked the retreat of the Terrans to their tentative alliance with the Brotherhood of Steel.

Wary eyes shielded themselves against the glare as the boy slave huddled and watched the massive metal structures lifted into the sky and ponderously made their way north east. A sense of whimsy assailed the boy as he tried to imagine flying in the sky like that. The fantasy resolved in his young mind as he imagined himself as one of the armored Terran warriors, standing proud in his shiny blue plate. A handful of them had wiped out an entire century of some of the Legion's finest warriors! He felt as though a hand were gently nudging him, as if some external power was driving him to follow the smoky contrails in the deepening gloom instead of returning to the slaver's lash to report on his master's failure. It didn't take long for the boy to make up his mind, spitting in the direction of his master's cooling corpse and setting off to, for once in his life, follow his dreams.


	17. Chapter 16: Night Terrors

Chapter 16: Night Terrors

"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown."

H.P. Lovecraft

* * *

The feverish nightmare faded with alacrity as the curtain of sleep lifted to reveal an even worse reality. His head bounced painfully against a jagged rock and excruciating waves of agony radiated from his left leg. His back was aflame from dozens of bruises and scrapes from being dragged along the ground for an interminable amount of time. He groggily lifted his head and screamed in terror at the creature that was, even now, dragging him for some unknown purpose. It was the size of a large dog but that's where the resemblance ended. It had a pair of scythe like arms extending from its back, one of which was the source of his leg pain, the barbed appendage stabbing through the meat of his leg as the creature grunted and growled pulling him along. He struggled weakly against the creature but his thrashing seemed to concern it not at all. Blood loss coupled with the trauma from the last few days weakened him to the point that his resistance was meek at best.

Two days ago, he had been busily weeding his garden, happy that this year's tato crop promised to be the best he'd had in several years. His wife was expecting and as he mentally counted out the caps he would get from this harvest, he was optimistic that he could finally get the parts he needed to repair the water purifier and finish the baby's room. Just in time too, she was nearing the end and the local midwife had taken up residence in their shack to prepare for the coming birth. His wife was strong and due to his hard work, had plenty of nourishment during her pregnancy. The midwife, a large and intimidating woman, gushed favorably over her progress.

The sun was beginning to set when the alarms began blaring. The watchman, an older former NCR trooper, turning the crank as fast as his arms could turn it. He looked up from his work to see a line of dust along the horizon, like a dust storm rolling in. He sighed and stood up, shielding his eyes against the setting sun to hazard a guess as to when the storm would hit. The shapes snarling within the whirlwind gave him pause when he made them out, wondering if he was imagining things. But as the distance closed the shapes resolved themselves in his vision and made his heart stop. Creatures born of a nightmare were the harbingers of the storm. Panic lent his limbs speed as he sped to his shack, startling his wife as he barged in and grabbed his hunting rifle.

"Dan, what is it?" His wife's voice rose in her rising fear.

"Stay inside and bar the door!"

"But…"

"Just fucking do it!" he screamed, wincing at the tears he had evoked from his beloved. It couldn't be helped, he had to join the others in the defense against this unknown threat.

He rushed outside and fell alongside his neighbors as they too strapped on what armor they had and readied weapons. Ignoring the ramshackle stairs leading to the top of their junk palisade, he scrambled up the side and rolled up onto the gang planks. Standing beside Yvette and Roger, he shakenly readied his rifle as they did likewise, all talk and speculation silenced before the spectacle speeding toward them. They had heard rumors of settlements stripped of life but it had sounded like so much rhetoric that they had heard a hundred times before. Life was hard, things happened. Only now did he wish that they had prepared a little more, though what preparation would have helped against what was now rushing for them, he couldn't say.

They reached the wall as the sun's final rays died and the failing light painted the creatures in lurid shades of purple and red. No, that's what color they actually were, though he could barely spare a thought to that as his focus was more on their fangs and claws and how many of the damn things there were than their color.

They hit the wall in a series of rolling crashes, their carapace'd bodies scrambling as they fought to gain purchase on the scrap metal to reach their prey. The settlers fired down into the mass, their rounds barely seeming to have an effect on the armored nightmares clawing and screeching below them. The metal groaned and shrieked in protest as powerful claws ripped sections of it away. It seemed a matter of moments before a breach was torn into the wall and the creatures surged inside.

What followed was a hazy nightmare of screams and blood. He fired until he ran out of bullets then bashed with the stock of rifle to no avail. Pain lanced through him and he knew no more…

Fresh agony brought him back into the present, as the creature dragged him through a cave opening he hadn't noticed before. As he was pulled downward, the contours of the cave changed from the rocky formation that one would expect to a warm and moist flesh like constituency. He could almost make out ribs along the cave walls like stanchions. He heard chittering like a multitude of massive insects were lurking just beyond the walls and rubbing their mandibles in eager anticipation.

An ear splitting shriek split the air and made his heart almost stop in his chest. It was followed by a liquid throaty howl that degenerated into wet burbling cries. Panic lent strength to his struggle yet availed him little, as two more of the dog-like lizard insects joined their companion and pulled his thrashing body further into the cave.

The tunnel widened into a cavern which glowed with an eerie green incandescence. The creature withdrew its scythe like claw from his leg by tossing him unceremoniously into the air. The air whooshed from his lungs from the impact that left him dazed. He rolled over and immediately yelped as his hand began to burn as if he had just plunged it into boiling water. He lay on the banks of a bubbling green pool, the murky liquid crested by an ominous mist which distorted the feeble light emanating from within. Without preamble, the creatures shoved him face first into the pool, and true agony ripped itself from his throat as fire licked along every nerve in his body. His mouth opened on reflex allowing the liquid to surge inside, tripling his unbearable agony. Blessedly, it was a short lived torture, as the enzymes in the spawning pool rendered Dan into his component proteins in a matter of seconds. A fact which dismayed the towering brood mother who quite enjoyed the Terrans' screams of agony.

The Brood mother was dissatisfied at the slow progress of attaining bio-mass for her brood. Temptation tickled in the back of her mind as she gazed thoughtfully at the Terran beside her ignorantly taking notes on his arm mounted computer. But no, these Terrans were useful and her young brood was far too vulnerable to allow her to give in to her lusts.

For his part, the Enclave scientist was as distrustful of this creature as he was fascinated. He had at least four power armored guards keeping a careful on this 'brood mother' at all times with instructions to dispose of her the instant she proved a problem. But for now, the volatile creatures they had come to know as 'zerg' were a useful instrument to reclaim the Enclave's former glory.

* * *

The journey was thankfully both short and uneventful. Both the command center and barracks settled on a narrow plateau to the east of the 'Hidden Valley' where the Brotherhood was supposedly stationed. Captain Griff appreciated the fact that the Brotherhood were taking an enormous risk by exposing their position to potential adversaries. They stood much to gain from this alliance, not the least of which was staving off their impending extinction. Griff grasped the information console tightly as the thud of the landing struts impacting the rocky tor thundered through the command center. Paladin Hardin nodded in satisfaction as he gazed out the main viewport, his eyes shifting to watch the barracks settle into its position to the north of the command center. Griff joined him on the observation platform and started as the paladin drew a sharp breath. He followed the man's intent look and frowned as he tried to make out distant figures making their way up the narrow pass to the plateau.

Paladin Hardin could hardly believe his eyes as he spied the beams from several sets of T-51 headlamps darting and weaving up the ravine heralding the approach of several paladins. He strode purposefully from the raised deck and headed to the lift, pausing only long enough to ensure that the Terran captain was following. With a shrug, the man joined him on the lift, his curiosity only adding to the tension rolling off of Hardin as he tried to guess what this entourage portended.

They paused at the gangway to allow the 3 SCVs to disembark, their arms laden with the materials needed to begin construction of a series of defenses and supply depots. The staccato clanks of their heavy footfalls on the ramp competed with the droning of the SCVs and the growling purr of the approaching power armored escort. A pair of Terran marines held their Impalers ready but stood down at a wave from the commander.

The squad of paladins turned off their headlamps as they entered the circle of illumination provided by the command center exterior lights and parted to allow their leader to come forward. With a hiss of escaping air, the man disengaged his helmet seals and tucked it under his arm, his movements assured and practiced.

"Elder McNamara." Paladin Hardin saluted his superior.

For his part, the grey haired Elder graced his Head Paladin with a nod, his face set in an expressionless mask.

"I came to see this for myself. What would make a loyal Paladin like Hardin skirt the edges of the Codex to ally with strangers?"

"Captain Griff Johnson, Raynor's Raiders." The commander introduced, his hand extended in greeting.

Elder McNamara took the offered hand and looked into the commander's face with an almost feverish intent. Desperate hope and weary suspicion warred within the Elder as he regarded the 'commander'.

"I believe we have much to discuss." The elder intoned, his mask of neutrality firmly back in place.

"Of course, please follow me into our CIC."

Over the course of the next several days, Brotherhood personnel and Terrans moved back and forth between the BoS bunker in Hidden Valley and the Command Center as each side hosted talks with each other respective leadership. Though replete with tense moments, one of which even threatened to devolve into a total collapse of amicability between the two groups, eventually an accord was reached.

The Brotherhood possessed massive databanks with an impressive amount of data regarding the technology they had found and researched over the years of the Chapter's existence. Data that they would allow the Terrans chaperoned access. Coupled with their equivalent of subject matter experts among their scribe corps, it represented their best chance to find a suitable analog for the complete lack of vespene. In return, the Terrans would provide limited data and engineering assistance to the Brotherhood to enhance their level of technology.

Sharon, Luca and Dominic worked closely with both Head Scribe Taggart and Knight Lorenzo. Both men leading small teams within their respective areas to wrap their heads around the Terran's material problem.

Luca tapped his chin thoughtfully as he paused to read over some schematics he found intriguing in the Brotherhood archive. A female scribe glanced over his shoulder, placing her hand on him as he thumbed through the data, getting closer to him than was absolutely necessary. He breathed in her scent as subtly as he could, hyper aware of her close proximity. He took a chance and reached back with his left hand, placing it gently on hers and felt the flush as she shifted her hand to squeeze his briefly before moving on to her own terminal. He sighed and tried to refocus on the screen before him, the schematics and data pointing to something called a XVB02 Vertibird. Linking the schematic with patrol data the Brotherhood had for the local area, indicated that there was a crashed one to the northwest. An idea formed in his head of combining the Vertibird design with the Terran Banshee, a hybrid that should perform well if they can solve the problem of power generation. The vertibird itself seemed to be powered by some form of enclosed fusion reaction cell. A technology that they could easily replicate, but fell short of what was required of most Terran vehicles and aircraft. Perhaps running several in serial?

"Commander, this is Luca." He broke the silence of the bunker's data archive. Piquing the scribe's attention.

"Go ahead Luca."

"I believe I have an idea for our mobility problem. Power generation may still be problem, but the schematics I found may allow for hybridization between our designs and the indigenous tech."

The Scribe Aran paused her work and came over to him, to better hear his end of the conversation.

"Hey! That's great news! What do you need to get started?"

"Knight Lorenzo would be a great help, as would Scribe Aran. I need Dominic and your wife in on this too, but there's more."

The scribe rested her hand on his shoulder again at the mention of her name, he looked up at her and noted her blush.

"What is it?" The commander queried.

"What?" Luca was momentarily confused.

"What more do you need?"

"Oh right, yes. There is an example of a flying machine not far from here. A crash site from Brotherhood recon reports. Retrieving it would give us both material and the framework to build our analog. Having an actual example to study would help us bridge the gap and we could possibly have our own transport by the end of the week."

The commander was impressed by his quick progress. At last, real results! "I'll detail Ramirez and Vasquez to head out to the site; we'll coordinate with Paladin Hardin and Elder McNamara, maybe they can detail some of their troops to assist."

"I'll gather the team here and move to the engineering bay to prep for their return."

Luca grinned up at the scribe, truly happy for once since their arrival here, hope lending him courage as he stood and stole a chaste kiss from the surprised scribe. She gasped in shock before wrapping her arms around his neck and crushing his lips beneath hers as if spending a lifetime of unspent passion in one moment. Knight Lorenzo strode through the door and immediately turned around and walked out, his embarrassment only heightening as the scribe and engineer began to broadcast their passion far more vocally. He hit the door control which blessedly muted the sounds coming from the archive room and walked away as fast as he could without breaking into a run.

* * *

He hissed as a shard of hot metal sliced his neck and shoulder, the wave of heat following a millisecond later and heating his back uncomfortably. He turned back to the small crater, the pitter of falling bits of wires and metal all that remained of the robo-scorpion he had just dispatched outside the 'Forbidden Zone'. His respite was short lived as he ducked his head moments before a blue blast of energy slammed into the wall just above him.

"Go my minion, sting them in the name of all that is Mobius!"

These damn things were hard to kill, their hulls resistant to small arms fire and they seemed less susceptible to pulse weapons than other robots. He resorted to using an advanced laser rifle he had found under the guard tower at Little Yangtze, despite how quickly the weapon seemed to degrade with prolonged use. He slotted a fresh microfusion cell into it and burst from his position to try and find some cover, using VATS to make as many of his shots count as he could.

"Stop that! You'll damage the hull!" The speakers on the robo-scorpions chided him.

Rolling behind a smallish boulder, he lay prone and rolled to his right, sighting the closest robo-scorpion and firing several quick blasts at its 'eyes'.

He rolled back into cover just as a fusillade of blue lasers stitched the ground and rock all around him. He peeked out from behind the rock and swore as he noticed the three robo-scorpions spreading out to flank him. He sighed as he made up his mind to do something stupid… consoling himself with the fact that he was operating without a brain in his skull, making everything he did a minor miracle.

Laying the rifle down, he gingerly removed the heated saturnine fist from the ceramic sheath he built for it. Taking in one last gulp of air, he charge out from cover to close the distance to the robo-scorpion attempting to flank him on the right. He dodged and ducked the blue rays sizzling the air and leaped onto the back of his target, hooking the tail with his left arm and began pounding into the carapace with his right. The first few blows seemed to do little, but as he kept up the pressure, despite the fire coming from the other two robo-scorpions and the thrashing of the one beneath him, the hull began to buckle and melt. He rained blow after blow in the same spot until at last he was rewarded with a screech as the fist pounded a hole through the armor and into the far more vulnerable mechanism and circuits beneath. The heat from the fist set the electronics on fire, the burst of flame roaring up and around his face even as he rolled off the robot.

Heedless of the dying scorpion behind him, he surged to the next and repeated his maneuver, stifling the scream rising from his throat as a laser burned painfully along his side. The sudden self-destruct blast from his last opponent actually assisted his jump onto the second robot.

Fifteen minutes, four laser burns and 3 pieces of shrapnel jutting from his torso later, he lay panting on the rocky ground waiting for the stim pack to do its work at repairing the damage this latest encounter had done to his body. The pain finally began to ease shortly after he applied a second stim pack, the burns finally fading as the skin and flesh was repaired. Checking over his equipment, he sighed in dismay as he noted the ruin the battle had made of his stealth suit and the Advanced LAER he had left behind the rock. Still, both were repairable if time were his ally, which lately it wasn't.

He dusted himself off and made his way to what appeared to be the main hatch leading into this so called 'Forbidden Zone', the red lighting around it painting him in sanguine shades. The door opened at his approach, some technological arcana taking place behind the scenes to unseal the portal and allow him entrance to what he hoped was the final challenge before he could recover his brain and get back to important work.

He made his way into the dome, moving as quickly and quietly as possible. The main chamber of the dome opened up before him and his heart seemed to stop in his chest as he stopped in utter shock. His eyes followed the contours of the metal legs up to the biggest… well, anything he had ever seen. His foot scuffed some rusted debris as he backpedaled against the wall, his heart jumping into his throat as the massive robo-scorpion turned and glared at the entryway. It shifted, the groaning metal filling the chamber with a tortured screech. As quietly as he could, he moved forward painfully slowly, his eyes attempting to catch every detail.

Along the right, he noted a series of protectron pods and all around the chamber were raised gantries with small observation posts. A plan began to form in his mind as he made out what appeared to be laser turrets stationed in intervals around the chamber. If the controls for the protectrons and the turrets were in those observation pods, then he stood a chance to actually get through this alive.

* * *

Ashur felt the threads of worry snaking through his thoughts as he inserted the capsule of Terrazine into his rebreather. His fist closed over the last few remaining ampules as he closed his eyes waiting for the gas to begin filtering into his mask. A slight hiss followed the crunch of the ampule releasing its purple nepenthe, and he breathed it in with relief. He had tried to be as conservative as possible with his severely limited supply, but even with his draconian measures, only a few days' worth remained to him.

He shook his head and waved away Jacky's inquisitive glance, refocusing her attention on the NCR patrol in the valley below them. They were dangerously close to Hidden Valley and Ashur could imagine that they had been sent to lend credence to the rumors their leaders had heard about the recent activities in this area. The loss of an entire century of Legion soldiers, the destruction of the NCRCF, the appearance of Brotherhood forces and the flight of the Terran structures as they moved from place to place had to attract some unwanted attention. He and Jacky had been watching this patrol from some time, and despite its meandering course, could only conclude that it was heading straight for the ruins of the NCRCF.

Their comm beads chirped, indicating an incoming transmission from the commander.

"Ghost reporting." Jacky growled into her mic, the sinister sound diminished in impact by the girlish giggle which immediately followed.

"Wait, what?" The commander sounded confused.

"Ashur here sir. That was my recruit, trying to be funny."

"I didn't know you had a recruit, Ashur."

"I will bring her back for debriefing after this assignment sir."

"Very well, what do you have to report?"

"Eight member patrol, recon, NCR regulars, currently three clicks east of NCRCF. Lightly armed, service rifles and side arms."

"Solid copy. We're not ready to deal with them yet, either diplomatically or militarily. Options?"

Ashur shifted his intense gaze to the young woman beside him and considered the question.

"Incapacitate the patrol. Enter their minds and alter their memories, make them think the Legion and Powder Gangers annihilated each other and send them back to Primm."

"Concur, execute." The commander stated, confident in the Spectre's abilities.

Ashur terminated the link and nodded to Jacky, and with a ripple of electronic backwash, they activated their stealth and began to move into the valley toward the patrol.

BREAK

"Sergeant, once we crest that ridge we'll be in sight of the facility."

"Roger that Corporal. Look alive troopers. We don't know what the hell happened around here."

The patrol voiced their affirmation to the squad leader, the anxiety riddling each of them making palms clammy as they held their weapons tight and their voices tinny and small in the desert night.

The sergeant tapped out his smoke and blew out his last drag, the smoke swirling weirdly in front of him. He only had enough time to cock his head in wonder at the sight before he felt a brief flash of pain in his face and darkness overcame him.

The patrol stood in surprise as the sergeant keeled over onto his back, his rifle clattering to the ground as his nerveless fingers slackened their grip on it. They looked to each other and started when the corporal let out a strangled 'Gack!' before likewise falling to the ground. Panic gripped them as they raised their weapons, eyes wide as they scanned futilely for the source. The patrol began to fall in pairs and the remaining troopers fired into the night, the roar of their rifles countering the frantic, frightened yelps as two more fell. The last two expended their ammo but continued to dry pull their triggers. The staccato clicking adding to the eerie feeling. When the two operatives de-cloaked in front of them, their sanity almost snapped as they lost control of their bowels. The menace of the two figures fell over them as they cowered back, mumbling and pleading unintelligibly. The taller male form closed in almost intimately and his sibilant whisper caressed their minds, making his next order seem entirely reasonable.

"Sleep…"

The sergeant looked up at the sky and was momentarily confused as to how the moon was in a different spot than he remembered. He checked over his patrol and aside from the residual shock and trauma from seeing the remains of the battle between a Legion force and the so-called 'Powder gangers', they seemed fine. Still, he looked forward to getting back to camp and reporting to Lt Hayes so he and his troopers could rest, seeing all those bodies had made even a veteran like him queasy. The patrol moved a little faster as they marched back to Primm, each one wrestling with the sight so brightly seared into their memories and completely unaware of the two cloaked Terrans watching them depart with satisfaction.

"Commander… mission accomplished."


	18. Chapter 17: Iron and Blood

Chapter 17: Iron and Blood

" _Courage is rightly esteemed the first of human qualities . . . because it is the quality which guarantees all others."_

~Winston Churchill

* * *

The Commander peered intently at his HUD and magnified the image of the crashed vertibird nestled in the foothills. The rest of his team spread out along his flanks, the marines in their blue CMC power armor mingling with the gunmetal grey armor of the Brotherhood paladins. Due to the shortage of marines and his anxiety at remaining behind on yet another mission, Griff decided to lead this force himself.

Luca sat idle astride his SCV a few klicks south with medic Hannigan and a pair of Brotherhood Knights as company. His combat team was composed of two marines and three paladins. As he continued to scan the area, he noted movement among the shattered remnants of the ancient flying machine patrolling a tight area around the scar the vertibird had carved into the hillside. He magnified the image again, linking to the adjutant for analysis and detailing his targets aloud for the benefit of the Paladins next to him.

"Sounds like a couple Mr. Gutsys' and a Sentrybot," the senior Paladin intoned, "the Gutsy is a militarized version of a domestic robot, armed with a plasma weapon, flamethrower and rotary saw in most cases. The Sentry is a robot tank, heavily armored with a missile launcher and minigun. This won't be easy."

Griff nodded and wracked his brain to conjure a plan. "Adjutant, can you access the robots wirelessly?"

"Standby…"

A few moments ticked by as he waited patiently, hoping for an affirmative.

"Negative, commander. The targets do not have wireless receivers. I have no access to their systems."

"Shit balls." He cursed. "So much for that plan."

As much as he wanted to avoid direct confrontation with the depleted nature of both his and the Brotherhood soldiers, they needed this wreckage or else their most likely avenue of getting off this rock would be stalled indefinitely.

"Marines, you're with me. Spread out and engage at speed. Paladins, flanking maneuver while we draw the robot's fire."

The squad acknowledged their orders, the Brotherhood Paladins moving off wide to re-position themselves to the north of the Terrans. As soon as he judged that enough time had passed, he gestured to his marines and charged up and straight at the crash site, his Impaler juddering in his armored fists as it sent hypersonic spikes at the robots.

The 'Mr. Gutsys' and 'Sentry' reacted quickly, the floating balls firing green plasma bolts at the charging marines as they spouted anti-communist war cries. The Sentinel's mini-gun barrel began to spin moments before a storm of 5mm rounds met his advance.

His nano-forged steel armor deflected most of the light rounds although the sheer number of impacts vibrated his suit with their unceasing staccato melody and rattled his teeth uncomfortably. Eventually even his Terran engineered armor would succumb to the punishment, his HUD flashing amber warning glyphs as the armor's integrity steadily dropped. The marines flanking him added their own gauss rifles' roar to his, concentrating their fire on the Sentry before its difference engine decided that a missile or two was a better option.

Green plasma continued to lance all about them as the trio made the opening of the jagged ravine, seeking what cover they could among the jagged rocks. The marine to his left cried out as his left arm came away in a spray of metal and blood, a well-aimed plasma bolt severing his limb and showering the unfortunate man in molten metal and hot plasma. With the gauss fire tapering off with one of his men going down, the robots pressed their assault despite the heavy damage they were taking.

Another plasma round disintegrated the rock he had been using as cover, sending Griff scrambling back and cursing.

"Ad Victoriam!" thundered the paladins, as they charged up along the ridge flanking the crash site and began firing down into the fray. The red beams of coherent light seared through the compromised shell of one of the Mr. Gutsys', melting through its core and sending it crashing to the ground in a heap of twisted limbs.

The robots took a moment to re-compute their new circumstances, the slight delay more than enough time for Griff and his remaining marine to perforate the sentry bot with steel spikes. It fell inert with an almost forlorn sounding decrescendo of beeps and whirs. Shifting their fire to the remaining Mr. Gutsies, the Terrans and Paladins made quick work of them, showering the ground with metal fragments.

Checking on his fallen marine, Griff was relieved to find his man doing fine, the CMC power armor having sealed off his wound and pumped his body with stimulants to compensate for the shock and blood loss. Calling in the rest of the team, he advised Hannigan of the casualty before nodding to the approaching Paladins.

"A well won victory." Paladin Taylor intoned, "Disabling the sentry bot is especially notable, they usually explode when terminally damaged."

"I'm glad that we were able to take the objective with no losses. Now let's take a look at this wreck."

A few hours later, after digging the wreck free with the SCV, pulling a pair of fusion cores from the sentry bot and securing some kind of weapon they had discovered at the site, the team made their way back to Hidden Valley, Luca's SCV pulling the vertibird along with a trailer he had custom made for the job. Their journey was blessedly free from complications, with only a few geckos menacing them from the rocky hills. The force made a little game of it, seeing which side could out shoot the other with the only real losers being the geckos as their heads exploded either from a hypervelocity steel spike or from having their brains flash boiled with a precision laser strike.

"Damn, no more lizard thingies." One of the marines complained. "Well, I guess that means we will have to break the tie some other time."

A paladin joked, "We'll just find some other way to make you buy the first round."

"Yeah," another marine suggested, "maybe a good old fashioned arm wrestle… oh wait."

The marine with the missing arm fixed a mock dour glare on his comrades as a good natured laugh erupted between the two groups. Griff inwardly smiled at the camaraderie, their bonds strengthening now that the Brotherhood men and Terrans had been in combat together. Before the day was out, the group made it back to Hidden Vallety, the Paladins and Terrans waving to one another as they headed for their respective camps.

Dominic, Sharon, Knight Lorenzo and a team of scribes and knights awaited Luca as he dragged the vertibird over to their hastily erected work shop just outside the entrance to the bunker. Within moments, the Adjutant had scanned the vehicle and the team swarmed over it like ants to inspect every detail before taking it apart. Griff watched the team at work for a moment before looking up at the approaching Elder.

"Commander, I see your operation was successful."

"Yes Elder. We suffered one casualty, but with bionic replacements, my marine will be back on duty in no time."

"That's good to hear. Do you really think they can get something useful from that?" He gestured in the direction of the loud work being done on the wreckage.

"Among her many talents, Sharon has an almost intuitive ability to make things happen scientifically. In the short time I've known him, Knight Lorenzo has shown a very similar ability to grasp and modify technology."

"A skill we have come to cultivate as our modus operandi." The elder agreed.

"In short, yes, I think that they can."

"Well I have some more news for you. Scribe Taggart has discovered some research in the archives done by our scribes at some point in the past to harness energy from radiated hydrocarbon gas. Further, there are notes about a source that was studied before the research was abandoned shortly before we discovered Helios One."

"The solar power plant? The one the NCR took from you?"

"The same." The Elder growled through clenched teeth, clearly still harboring strong emotions on the subject. Seeing how sensitive a topic it was, Griff moved on.

"Where is this source?"

"South of here, close to where the Legion is based unfortunately. A system of caves called Fire Root Cavern. Infested with a type of gecko that breaths fire."

Griff shook his head at the continuingly confounding things they kept discovering about this alternate Earth. He sighed at the idea of any kind of survey being overly complicated, if even possible, with the Legion based so close by.

The elder nodded in understanding at the look, "The research appears promising at least, the scribes report that the potential energy from the radiated gas made it worthy of further study. Elder Elijah disagreed."

The Commander nodded and began to formulate a plan, perhaps a stealth mission to obtain samples? Ashur and his protégé have proven very capable when they turned the NCR patrol back, maybe they could at least verify the decades old report? He sighed profoundly, it would have to wait though, the spectre having informed him that he was undertaking a mission with 'Jacky' that would require radio silence. Though 'trust' was an imprecise term, Griff knew that Ashur was very capable and had the best interests of the Raiders in mind. Since they had freed the bulk of them from New Folsom, the oftentimes enigmatic and eccentric spectres had proven again and again that they considered Raynor and his boys like family and would do anything to repay that debt.

Griff only hoped that the Spectre and his apprentice were alright…

* * *

Jacky shivered, her eyes locked onto the bloody handprint that stood in stark relief against the massive steel grey cog. 'VAULT 18' was emblazoned in faded yellow letters above the old and flaking blood smear, the cavern otherwise empty and forlorn. No, there was something else there. Ashur, after glancing and patting her shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, moved over to investigate.

A rocky outcropping partially hid a rusted control panel, a skeletal hand and lower arm still hanging from the mechanism. On the ground just beneath the limb was a dust covered wrist band of some kind. Sweeping the dust away revealed a monitor of some kind and some dials and switches. Ashur remembered something similar worn by the Courier, Paul Maxson, something he had called a 'Pip-boy'. Examining it further, he found that the device interfaced with the console via a data cable, ostensibly to unlock the door from the outside. He looked up from his investigation as Jacky stood over him, her face unreadable but her mind almost screaming in a torrent of conflicting emotions.

Ashur stood, shook the remaining dust from the pip boy and handed it to Jacky. She stared down at it for a long moment as the war of emotion within her began to diminish until one clear victor remained: vengeance. She took the pip-boy and fastened it to her arm, clipping the device into place and turning the power on. After centuries of disuse, the mobile computer was surprisingly still operational with an image of the vault boy giving her the thumbs up. Ashur moved aside as she stepped up the console, pulling the data cable from the pip boy and inserting it into the port. A safety shield flipped open revealing the clichéd 'big red button'. She slammed it with her fist with more ferocity that was necessary, causing the console to groan in protest even as it worked to fulfill her wishes. A dull thud was followed by a whirring noise punctuated with a screeching sound. A final slam shook the chamber when the cog suddenly began to pull inward, air and dust rushing into the now yawning opening. The cog rolled to the side as the pressure equalized, the sigh of return air from the open vault smelling of death and decay.

Ashur took a step but halted at Jacky's outstretched arm, "I need to do this. Alone."

Expelling purple tinged terrazine gas from his rebreather, Ashur conceded and moved back, finding a comfortable spot to wait for his student. He respected her wish to deal with her past and was willing to let her do it… to a point. He wasn't about to waste days of intensive training on a girl he had grown fond of no matter her desires. He linked with her and observed as she made her way into the yawning abyss of Vault 18.

* * *

Paul wiped the sweat beading off of his brow and ducked instinctively as the crackling miniature lightning storm played havoc across the metal girders on the platform near him. His pip-boy ticked and crackled in response as it measured the resultant increase in rad exposure. He could feel the insidious effects of the increasing radiation as a nauseating sensation and fought back the urge to vomit as he continued to type furiously. There!

With a final keystroke, the protectron pods activated, unleashing a small swarm of decoy robots and offering a much welcome reprieve by distracting the giant robo-scorpion. He wiped his damp palms on his thighs as he surveyed the results. He frowned in dismay at the speed and lethality the robo-scorpion was dealing with the decoys, its tail laser slashing through the clanking robots like a hot knife through brahmin butter. Tearing his eyes from the spectacle of robotic destruction, he quickly ransacked the observation pod he was in, grunting in approval as he hefted the pair of pulse grenades. He appreciated how irony was favoring him now, by providing the very instruments that could prove instrumental in dealing with this technological terror. He added the two grenades to the four others he had already found. He risked another glance over and was not encouraged by the severely depleted state of the protectrons. He made his way as quietly as he could to the next observation pod ignoring the unhelpful chatter from the stealth suit.

Jackpot! He thought, exultant that the next few minutes may not actually be the last ones of his life. This terminal controlled the laser turrets stationed around the chamber and due to their spread, could potentially fire several salvoes before the robo-scorpion could target and destroy each one in turn. A thunderous clank distracted him for a moment, and he peeked out from behind the monitor to see the tail of the giant robot sweeping the chamber for more targets.

"Here are a few more for you, you giant son of a bitch." He growled, selecting the activation of the turrets.

The turrets shuddered to life all around the chamber and immediately began to track and fire red beams of coherent light at the robo-scorpion. Maxson began to move immediately, looking for an area relatively free from the turrets so as not to get caught in the radioactive blast as the robot destroyed them.

Huddling down opposite what he presumed was the hatch leading into the erstwhile Dr. Mobius' inner sanctum, he pulled the pulse grenades from his satchel and set them down next to him. Cocking his right arm, he tossed the grenade to clatter under the scorpion. Though not an expert at demolitions, the scorpion was the size of a proverbial barn and missing it would require a particularly vindictive lady luck pissing on him.

She decided to stay out of it, the grenade skidding across the floor and detonating comfortably close enough to the scorpion to catch it in its aura. It visibly slowed in its assault on the turrets and juddered as lightning played across its hull. He tossed numbers two and three in rapid sequence before moving to a new position, not waiting to observe the effects.

A bright red beam and resultant radioactive electric shockwave exploded behind him, the blast knocking him off of his feet and pitching him headfirst into a forcefield blocking access to the next pod. He bounced against the energized barrier and felt the nerves in his face and chest seeming to catch on fire from the impact. He growled through the pain and drew the sonic emitter, firing a pulse into the force field to bring it down. He rolled back onto his hands and knees and fast crawled to the pod. He listened as another turret was presumably destroyed and the ominous silence which followed.

"Crap" he thought, now it's just him. He panted and sweat as he sat there, despondent for a moment while he collected himself. Maxson knew it had been going too easily. He had found the terminal with a shut-down protocol for the robo-scorpion and thinking that it couldn't possibly be that easy, initiated the shut-down. Well, it did shut down the big metal freak… for about 60 seconds before the damn machine rebooted. Subsequent commands to shut down were met with nothing happening at all. He didn't need to look at his status on the pip boy to know he was suffering from severe radiation poisoning and that he had suffered a fair number of injuries aside. His calf still burned where molten metal had splashed onto him after being blasted by the damn scorpion and half his face felt raw from the impact just now. He felt a painful grinding in his ribs which told him he had one, maybe two broken ribs.

The hiss of released medical narcotics brought some sense of relief as he gripped the stim pack against his thigh. He let it clatter to the floor next to the Med-X auto-injector he had just used. It wasn't enough, not by a long shot, but it would have to do for now. Gripping the sonic emitter in his left, he primed the pulse grenades in his right by slamming them onto the ground, rising up to meet the turning robo-scorpion and tossing the grenades just before sliding beneath the hand rail and down onto the main deck. He ran forward even as the grenades exploded at the machines feet, firing the sonic emitter as fast as he could and screaming for all he was worth. A red light glowed brightly in its tail as it aimed straight at him when it suddenly died and the scorpion collapsed in a heap. Remembering what happened when the smaller cousins to this bitch died, he stopped his headlong rush, almost tripping over his own feet and scrambled for all he was worth away from the robot. A flash of heat and light rushed out to overcome him before everything went black.

* * *

The NCR trooper lowered his binoculars and let out the breath he had been holding. In a rare turn of fate, the NCR detachment actually received intelligence from a Ranger station that a group of raiders was moving up the Long 15. Since Lieutenant Hayes and his squad were stationed on Primm's southwestern side to prevent further incursions by powder gangers along the route to the Mojave outpost, he had ordered the men to prepare to repel the raiders.

The narrow bridge was mined and the decrepit buildings overlooking the access point were fortified with the few NCR troopers they had. Around an hour ago, the sounds of a fierce fire fight erupted from the north. The normal sounds of gunfire somehow subdued by the staccato roar of a weapon he had never heard before. The noise petered out after only a few minutes followed by a long period of silence. A single howl pierced the night followed by a single loud retort. He scanned the area again though the buildings on the other side of Primm blocked his view. As he scanned further, he spotted movement in the road between the Mojave Express and the Vicky and Vance casino. A figure in blue metal stalked past with a massive rifle resting against its shoulder, it paused to turn and wave at the astounded trooper.

"What is it trooper?" Lt. Hayes asked impatiently.

"Um… sir, I have no idea." The trooper replied.

Inside Primm itself, a different sort of reaction to the attack was taking place.

He flipped shut his lighter and took a satisfied puff from his smoke as Meyers surveyed the resultant carnage. "That's a fine day's work fellas, a FINE day's work."

Deputy Beagle was still rattled from the impressively loud roar from the gauss rifle he had fired in anger for the first time a few moments ago. The four of them, Sheriff Meyers, Deputy Ashburn and the two newbies from Primm, had been alerted to the raider gang long before the NCR had gotten word. A bunker had been set up on that approach to the town and they had simply waited for the dozen or so raiders to get close enough to identify before Meyers gave the order to gun them down. The raiders, Jackals from the look of them, had tried to fight back, but their weapons simply weren't up to snuff to penetrate the bunker, let alone hurt the power armored marines within. The HUD tracked targets for him; adrenaline and the menacing presence of the others had kept him shooting despite his overwhelming need to be elsewhere. Meyers was determined to make a man of him, correctly judging the deputy somewhat craven despite his weak boasts and outright lies. Though the aftermath left him feeling weak in the knees, even he couldn't help but feel a surge of pride and strength at defending Primm so effectively against a rather large raider force.

The last raider fell dramatically after a tense moment, his body remaining upright and swaying despite how sure they were that they had hit him at least twice. Ashburn actually laughed at the spectacle, the raider's upper body falling in an opposite direction from his lower. Meyers chuckled and signaled for the men to move out of the bunker and secure the site. Beagle stepped gingerly over the steaming bodies, accidentally crushing a limb beneath an armored foot and causing the raider attached to that arm to lurch. He fired down in a panic, obliterating the face and upper torso of the raider and falling back with a yelp. Raucous laughter assailed him and reddened his cheeks in embarrassment as Meyers caught him and heaved him back to a standing position.

"Dammit Beagle, square up."

He made to mumble a reply when his auditory receptors picked up a dry hissing scream that made the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. He aimed his weapon in the direction indicated by his HUD and sighted the feral ghouls rushing towards the group.

"Contact! Feral Ghouls!" he shouted, his weapon barking as he fired at the approaching swiftly approaching reavers. The others joined him, a fusillade of steel mowing down the first few reavers before the ghouls were among them. Suddenly, an angry hissing face was inches from his own, rotting limbs flailing at him with astonishing strength. Each blow raining on his armor sent vibration through his body and he shuddered as a plate actually dented from the blow. The shocking thuds began to awaken a dull pain as he struggled against the rain of fists falling onto him. A bayonet speared from its housing on a gauss rifle and impaled the nearest ghoul, the ferocity behind the blow picking the ghoul up bodily and caving in its chest even as the blade slashed its innards. He started in surprise as he noticed that it was his bayonet now dripping with blood. He froze in astonishment as the others finished the last of the ferals, Meyers angrily blasting the last writhing ghoul in the head in reprisal for his cracked and damaged helmet. He looked up at Beagle and gave him a firm nod of respect, the others laughing and clapping him on the back for his last kill.

They marched back to the appreciative whistles and cheers of the townsfolk, several of whom moved out to ransack the raider's cooling bodies. Beagle glanced over to the NCR force camped out on the bridge on the southwest of town and gave them a little wave before joining the others for a cool beer inside the Vicky and Vance casino. The bright blue flag of Raynor's Raiders snapped and rippled in the wind, in stark contrast to the barely flapping flag of the NCR.

* * *

A/N: I wanted to take a moment to apologize for the long hiatus. Hopefully releasing 3 chapters in the space of a week helps that apology. Next Chapter will be a bit longer so it will take longer to finish up. Thanks for reading and please review/critique.


	19. Chapter 18: Winds of Change

Chapter 18: Winds of Change

"Without change there is no innovation, creativity, or incentive for improvement. Those who initiate change will have a better opportunity to manage the change that is inevitable."

~William Pollard

* * *

Sharon was taking a break from the research on the prototype flyer to devote some time and effort towards discovering what had happened to the courier at the old drive in. A soft spoken man named Arcade worked alongside her while Veronica and Cassidy ostensibly kept watch, though from the rising volume of their constant bickering, it was more likely that they'd invite trouble instead of warding it away.

"Power fluctuations are now within acceptable parameters, Arcade." Sharon noted on her portable terminal. The satellite-like device was powered down when they approached it, so Sharon carefully attempted to build a rectifier to interface the fusion core she had brought with the systems on the anomaly. Careful readings indicated that the satellite had a very specific voltage range and though shielded from EM, did not have a built in limiter when outside power was applied.

Arcade nodded and gingerly plugged the rectifier in place, he skittered back in case the device began to spark but his precaution proved unnecessary. The machine hummed and a click preluded the activation of a lamp and lens as an image of a wandering eye appeared on the old theatre screen.

"Ah, now we're getting somewhere." Arcade noted, coming around to peer over Sharon's shoulder as she took readings with her terminal.

"That looks like an RF signal," he pointed out, "maybe a transponder?"

"That's what Veronica had guessed." Sharon affirmed, sparing a glance at the brunette who had apparently lost the argument and was sullenly perched atop a wooden post. "I think we can triangulate the signal, find out where it's pointing to." She added, typing into her terminal.

"It's pointing northwest of here. Signal strength would put it in the mountains in northern Nevada."

"I'm sorry, where?" Arcade asked, looking intently at the line of code.

"I'd show you, but we don't have any satellite telemetry. Or a good map for that matter." Sharon leaned back and stretched her tired shoulders. "In any case, it seems that we have a general location, but it's a long haul on foot. We should get back to work on the prototype."

Arcade ran his hand through his silver hair and looked up at the sky. Again, he wondered at the implications of sharing his secret past with his associates. He shook it off quickly. It wasn't just his life at stake. If people knew that there were former Enclave members hiding out within their communities, it would be torches and pitchforks time. The two packed up and deactivated the satellite and gathered up their squabbling escorts. Each of them lost in their own thoughts as they walked back to Hidden Valley, prevalent among them, where was the Courier?

* * *

"Well, there's many things they have forgotten, sitting in their bowls. Friendship. The thrill of discovery. Love. Masturbation. The usual."

Paul Maxson was reclining at ease in the personal laboratory of Dr. Mobius, a 180 degree turn from what he had been expecting to do once he arrived. But the so-called master of the Forbidden zone and antagonist of this weird sci-fi melodrama was actually quite kind and endearing. When asked about those ominous threats and warnings he had simply stated, "Oh, I was probably tripping hard on Psycho when I sent that. Had to work myself up to it, not usually violent, except when I am. Then, huh! Watch out!"

After talking for what seemed like hours, the courier just couldn't bring himself to fight and kill the man… er, brain thing. Even if he could conveniently ignore the rambling story of how this situation had evolved in the first place. Dr. Mobius had 'reprogrammed his friends and colleagues, sent constant threats and kept them pent up in their dome to save the rest of the world from their unmitigated scientific curiosity. A drive that was completely unfettered by morality. He was aghast when he learned that Boros alone was responsible for the cazadores and night stalkers. Mobius kept them imprisoned to keep the rest of the world safe from their experiments and tampering.

"Well, we are at quite the impasse then. What am I supposed to tell the Think Tank?" Paul sighed.

"Oh, tell them I'm still alive, we had a nice chat, and we agree on a few things… Or, you could kill me and lie about it."

"I'm not going to kill you Doctor. But I am starting to evolve a plan here. Something that will keep the Think Tank confined AND benefit the people of New Vegas."

"Oh really?"

"Yes, the only thing keeping them here is the recursive loop you've programmed into them and the radar fence surrounding the crater. Now that you have the technology that could be used to bypass that barrier, that does stymie them for the time being."

"True, but for all their faults, they really are brilliant scientists. If they ever put them minds to it, they could find a way through the fence."

"What I intend is to remove any reason they would have for leaving. In short, bringing technology and science to them. I'd put them to work doing what they love best and the results could be used to elevate the standard of living throughout the wasteland."

"Oh I would so love having a porpoise again!" Mobius exclaimed.

"A porpoise?"

"Yes! A raisin for being! A direction... and of course, the opportunity for new scientific avenues is not something even I would want to give up."

After talking it over with the doctor, they formulated a plan which Paul was convinced would work to the benefit of everyone. He saw a valuable resource here to not just improve the lives of the folks barely scraping by in places like Freeside, but to turn the tide against the three powerhouses; House, Caesar and the NCR. He then had a very interesting discussion with his own brain… where he had to convince his erstwhile organ to return to its home in his cranium with promises of more appreciation and at least attempting to avoid more hazards in the future. With his brain back in his head and feeling re-invigorated with both porpoise… purpose, and a healthy dose of Rad Away and the judicious application of stim-packs, Paul set off to confront the Think Tank.

* * *

Hank wondered for the ump-teenth time if that creaking noise came more from his old arm chair or from his joints. Though only just reaching his 56th birthday, life in the wasteland was a bitter grind on good days, each hard fought day etched in lines across his withered frame.

He lit up a smoke leaning back as far as he dared, listening intently to the chair groaning alarmingly under his weight and the distant chirping echoing in the cool night air. He looked out over his land which stretched over several dusty acres just outside of Freeside. His eyes were never all that great, the years had only diminished their capacity to make out detail from a distance. So it was with was with suitable skepticism that he viewed the dark figures tromping through his fields of corn. His chair's back legs wobbled as he fought to ease the chair back down so that he could lean forward for a better look.

Four metal clad men, their war plate dark and sinister, stalked through the hip high stalks of corn with malice evident in every tromping footfall. A sickly green glow issued ominously from their weapons, the ill intent of their stance echoed in the yellow glow of their eyes. They paid the old man no more than a passing glance, their focus intent on the New Vegas medical clinic.

Wastrels and lay-abouts scampered away at the approach of the strange figures, their cowardice justified as much by the demeanor of the sinister foursome as the fearsome appearance of their power armor. Hardly slowing, the lead member kicked in the door and strode inside, surprised guards within gaping at the intrusion. Their hesitation cost them dearly, as the intruders spread out in the waiting room and fired bolts of green plasma at the scrambling guards, their flesh melting into puddles of goo on the dirty floor.

An Asian woman burst out from the back room, shock painting her pale features in a mask of horror as she beheld the grotesque scene.

"Are you Dr. Usanagi?" One of the power armored men growled, stepping forward to menace her with his plasma rifle.

Fear choked her, trapping her words in her throat as her mind struggled to come to terms with the events playing out before her. The instincts to fight or flee went to war within her and caused sweat to bead on her forehead and her limbs to tremble uncontrollably. The man stepped closer, the grind of his power armor making her teeth ache as he stepped in so close that the heat from his weapon was uncomfortable.

"I am not a patient man, so I ask again. Are you Dr. Usanagi?"

She tried to force a reply past the choking blockade but could only manage to bob her head ever so slightly. Satisfied at the meager reply, the man swept her up with no little violence to his movements, the sudden surge at being swept off her feet making her tenuous grasp at consciousness fade into nothing.

He laid the limp form of the Doctor of his shoulder and gestured to his men to clear out the rest of the building as he strode from the doorway. He spoke into his headset and looked up when his call was answered by the approaching vertibird. More cries heralded his departure as his men culled the patients that had lingered, pausing only long enough to set the doctor onto the deck of the war machine. His men mounted up after they had finished their work, the dread symbol of the Enclave's power rising up into the night sky and disappearing to the east.

* * *

"We didn't pull you out of that fantasy land so you could dither about and try my patience Braun!"

Colonel Eastland was in no fit mood for the condescending scientist, who had steadfastly refused to cooperate with their demands until certain conditions were met. His time in the simulator pod after the death of the other Vault 112 residents had left him both physically decrepit and mentally unhinged. He banged around the chamber in his wheelchair, drool dribbling down his chin as he frothed and raved about someone called the 'Lone Wanderer' and made continuing demands for frivolous things.

Smack! The colonel's hand stung from striking the Braun, but the sudden and sullen silence from the man was suitable compensation from this temporary discomfort. Blood pinked the drool oozing in long ropes from the man's mouth but a certain clarity seemed to light up the doctor's eyes.

"My apologies Colonel. I am indeed grateful for my rescue." Braun stated, his clarity surprising the colonel.

A few minutes later, the colonel was wheeling the good doctor along a concrete corridor deep within the Cheyenne Mountain complex, the last stronghold of the Enclave in the United States. Braun seemed withdrawn after his moment of clarity, occasionally engaging in somewhat acerbic conversations with people that only existed in his mind. The colonel for his part didn't mind Dr. Stanislaus' eccentricities. After all, he had been trapped alone in that virtual reality simulation pod for some time. As long as his brilliance and scientific knowledge were intact, and every indication showed that it was, the colonel did not care. They descended several levels via elevator and continued onward, their progress occasionally slowed by having to squeeze by Enclave personnel and power armored troopers moving through the complex. Gaining access to a secure room, he wheeled the doctor in to an observation chamber looking out over a sterile white tiled room with nothing save a drain in the middle. Two doors stood closed on opposite ends of the room. Colonel Eastland moved the doctor to where he could have a good vantage point next to an unwilling observer, a younger Asian doctor held in place by a power armored trooper standing behind her seat.

"Dr. Braun, may I introduce Dr. Usanagi. She is something of an expert in the fields of medicine and cybernetics. She'll be working with you on this very important project."

"Like hell I will, you son of a bitch." Dr. Usanagi snapped, her defiance somewhat restrained by the massive metal gauntlet that held her down.

"Oh I think you'll come around, Doctor." The colonel drawled.

"Yes, yes, I'll ask when I get around to it!" Braun barked to his left, at an empty seat.

"Excuse me, doctor?"

"I wasn't talking to you!" Braun shouted vehemently, "What are we doing here?"

The colonel paused, frowning.

"NOW, I'm talking to you!"

Colonel Eastland sighed, "I wanted to give you a little demonstration of what the U.S. Government requires of you, Doctor. Both of you."

"Eat shit, Enclave bastard! I…" whatever else, Dr. Usanagi was about to say was choked off by the sudden downward pressure the Enclave trooper behind her exerted on her shoulder. Her eyes began to tear up in pain and she clamped her mouth firmly shut to keep from crying out.

The door behind them hissed open and admitted a pair of enclave scientists.

"Ah, the rest of the team is here, excellent." Colonel Eastland observed, waving the scientists to open seats.

"I won't… work for you." Usanagi murmured, the lingering pain from her shoulder making her wary of raising her voice again.

"Oh no? Daniel will be very disappointed to hear that."

"I don't care! I don't know any Daniel and I certainly don't care that he'll be disappointed!"

The colonel smirked and pressed a call button on the wall, "Send him in."

One of the doors in the observatory opened up and a young man, no more than 17 or 18, was roughly shoved into the chamber. He looked lost and disheveled… a simple wastelander who had no clue what was happening.

The colonel activated the intercom, "Daniel, I'm sorry to have to tell you this son. But the good doctor isn't going to do as her government asks. Your sacrifice will be remembered when we rebuild this great nation of ours."

The boy looked up at the glass separating him from the observers, confusion twisting his features.

Before the boy could ask what he meant, the opposite door opened, and a creature borne from man's deepest nightmares scurried in. It was one of the same creatures that had attacked his settlement. He'd seen what they could do before he had fainted and began hyperventilating in panic. The creature sniffed the air and cast a baleful gaze at the young man, its claws scratching scars into the tiled floor.

"Kill him." The colonel ordered.

The creature bounded forward like a war dog slipped off its leash. The boy barely had time to scream before he was bowled over and engulfed in raking claws and stabbing sickles. A leg came free in the thrashing attack, jets of blood painting semi-circles on the walls around it. The creature was clearly toying with the poor boy, as it took an inordinate amount of time for it to finally bore of its game and plunged its sickles into his upper chest and ripping open, making the silently screaming head sail away to land with a wet smear.

Usanagi vomited, staining her lab coat and filling the small observation chamber with an acrid stink.

A shadow fell over her and she looked up with eyes heavy with tears at the solemn looking colonel.

"That was Daniel. Now I'll ask again, will we have your cooperation?"

Usanagi shook her head in denial, denial against this nightmare she couldn't seem to wake up from. The colonel sighed, mistaking her gesture as continued defiance.

"Mrs. Clara will be disappointed to hear that."

Her mind in a fugue state, her head was forced upwards to observe as the creature padded back through its door, the vault sealing shut just as its opposite opened and a young woman shoved unceremoniously in. She screamed at the sight of the dismembered boy and scrambling back towards the door. She slipped on the viscera coating the floor, landing on her backside as she continued to backpedal.

"Oh god no." Usanagi prayed, her eyes finally focusing through her tears at the very pregnant young woman sobbing in the next room.

The colonel made his way back to the intercom but his words were drowned out by Usanagi, "Oh my god! Fuck! I'll do it! For fuck's sake! Please fucking stop!"

The colonel nodded and activated the intercom, "Mrs. Clara, you will be pleased to hear that the good doctor has agreed to do her patriotic duty and serve her government. Orderlies… please return Mrs. Clara to her room."

A pair of men came in and gently picked the sobbing woman from the floor, half carrying the emotional wreck from the abattoir.

Dr. Braun had snapped from whatever psychosis had enveloped him and was surveying the scene with rapt attention. A small smile tugged at his lips as his tongue darted out to catch a line of spittle.

"That was very interesting, Colonel Eastland. Please explain what we just observed."

The colonel smiled and nodded at Braun, "Of course doctor, I would be pleased to. We are allied with a creature called 'Shivarra.' She calls herself a Brood mother and has the capability to spawn a swarm of various creatures, one of whom we just had the pleasure of seeing in action, a zergling. Her race seems to have mastered genetic engineering to an astounding degree and she carries the genetic legacy necessary to spawn a number of effective combat organisms."

"Fascinating!" Dr. Braun exclaimed.

"I think you mean horrifying." Usanagi muttered.

One of the Enclave scientists interjected, "The Enclave is in a tenuous position. With the loss of our assets on both the east and west coasts, we suffer from an extreme shortage of manpower. Allying with this 'Shivarra' can solve the manpower problem and allow us to reclaim our rightful place. The bottleneck, is that she can only spawn the very simplest of her soldiers, these 'zerglings'. Though an effective weapon against settlers and the like, against a more disciplined and better armed force, we would begin to see diminishing returns."

The last scientist finally broke his silence, "That's why you are here. Shivarra requires access to a resource that we simply do not have and cannot replicate. We need your expertise to synthesize a suitable replacement. With it, it is hoped that she can spawn additional phenotypes to augment her forces and increase their effectiveness across the combat envelope. Then we can finally turn our attention to these tribal dogs calling themselves 'Caesar's Legion and the rebellious upstarts in this 'New California Republic'."

"There is only one government for the United States, and that government is the Enclave. Anyone else is a traitor to our great country." The colonel declared, conviction clear in both his tone and his proud stance.

Usanagi, despite her horror, could not tear her eyes away from the bloody smear on the tiled floor. A sense of dread rose within her at the thought of an army of these creatures slaughtering their way west with nothing to stand against them.

* * *

Steam hissed and coiled like a ghostly grey serpent as sparks flew and lit up the ethereal miasma like a lightning storm. The thunder of hammers added to the storm metaphor and almost convinced Elder McNamara to retreat from the workshop. His Knights and the Terrans had opened up another wing of the underground bunker to give them more room to work. This bunker included several large garage type spaces and even a small hangar where the prototype vertibird design was slowly taking shape.

He shaded his eyes against the glare of a fusion welder being used by one of the Terran's conscripted SCV operators. He turned at a muffled sound to his left, only then noticing that one of his knights was trying to get his attention by attempting to shout through the tumult. He winced at a particularly loud screech and made his way over to the man, avoiding bustling work crews as they hustled around the cavernous chamber.

Ducking into an antechamber that smelled heavily of oil and hot metal, he breathed a sigh of relief when the knight closed the portal behind him, the noise diminishing to a more tolerable level.

"Good morning, Elder." Knight Barrett greeted.

"Good morning, Knight Barrett. You wanted to show me something?"

"Yes sir. The Terrans have finished retooling this arming chamber and I wanted you to see our first volunteer." The knight gestured to a long gangway with a nervous young paladin standing at attention at one end.

At a nod from the Elder, the knight initiated the sequence. A conveyor belt juddered, stumbling the paladin for a moment, before slowly moving forward and carrying the recovering paladin with it. He wore a simple body glove and stood as still as he could, his eyes clamped tightly shut as robotic arms detached from the walls and began assembling power armor sections around him. The entire process only took a few seconds, at the end of which now stood a Brotherhood Paladin cased in orange and black power armor that strongly resembled the Terran's CMC armor. A notable difference was in the helmet, instead of the dome that the Terrans used, it resembled a more traditional BoS T-60 helm, though far more streamlined.

"I introduce the T-72 power armor. Like the Terran's armor, it is assembled from nano-forged steel and powered with a pair of fusion batteries. It features advanced NCB shielding, full life support, integrated communications system and a heads up display."

"Why is it orange?"

"Oh yes, well the Terrans consider unpainted power armor to be bad luck for some reason." His explanation was interrupted by the paladin stomping over to stand before the two men, rendering a salute to the elder.

McNamara returned the salute and examined the armor with interest. He noted the Paladin's name, 'Wilson' stamped into the chestplate just under his rank insignia and the BoS symbol etched on the opposite side.

"How many of these do we have?"

"There are currently 4 completed suits sir. With your permission, we can decommission the older T-45 power armor and use the material to forge more. Inside a month, we can have every Paladin kitted out in the new T-72 hardskin."

"What about the T-51 and T-60 power armor?"

"We thought it best to keep those as active spares, sir."

"Wise," the elder nodded, "How long to outfit our paladins if we don't scrap the T-45s?"

"Add at least another month sir, each suit takes several hundred pounds of steel and it will take some time to salvage that much, especially with the Banshee project taking up so much of our stockpile."

"Very well, scrap half the T-45s and T-51s. Put the rest into storage."

McNamara turned away from the men and sighed once out of sight of the men, his hands cradling his head. That they had so many spares was due to the severely depleted nature of his beloved chapter. With less than 30 battle ready paladins, and most of those inexperienced outside of the VR simulator, he felt desperate clinging to the hope that the Terran's impressive technology could bring his people back from the edge of utter ruin. He knew that it was only a matter of time before the storm broke and it would be only the courage of his brothers and the strength of their alliance that would see them survive it. He was tired, so very tired holding on to the threads of a fraying legacy. The tapestry of his glorious chapter stretched back through the decades until brought to a bitter end with Elder Elijah. His jaw clenched thinking about the erstwhile traitor, and fiercely wishing the best of luck to Christine Royce, the fierce woman dispatched to hunt down the man.

His rumination was interrupted by another of his Knights, the young man calling over to the Elder with clear excitement lending his gesture a sort of wild energy. Nolan noted that the man held a laser rifle in his hands, in a partial stage of assembly.

"Knight." The elder greeted, returning the man's salute.

"Sir, we've just received reports that a large number of Legion forces are currently coming in from the southeast. One of our procurement specialists carried the word from his contacts with the trade caravans to the south. They didn't say how many precisely, but they mentioned several banners which would indicate separate units."

"Probably several hundred men then." He muttered, mostly to himself. "Thank you knight, inform Head Scribe Taggert and Head Paladin Hardin. I will expect them both in my office inside the hour."

"Yes sir." The knight saluted, rushing off still cradling the laser rifle pieces.

McNamara bowed his head, feeling the rising pressure as an almost physical weight pressing down on him. If the Legion were bolstering their numbers, then the NCR would likely follow suit. His Chapter was in danger of becoming a footnote in history as two massive armies caught his brothers and sisters between them like the proverbial rock and a hard place. He was teetering on the edge, daring to hope that his alliance with the Terrans and the exposure that it entailed didn't doom his brotherhood.


	20. Chapter 19: Power Overwhelming

Chapter 19: Power Overwhelming

"Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream  
Make him the cutest that I've ever seen  
Give him two lips like roses and clover  
Then tell him that his lonesome nights are over  
Sandman, I'm so alone  
Don't have nobody to call my own  
Please turn on your magic beam  
Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream"

~Pat Ballard

* * *

The distant echo of dripping water greeted her as the ghost made her way along the steel gantries beyond the massive vault door. She fought to maintain her calm, her breathing becoming ragged as her nerves frayed at the nightmarish memories lurking behind her eyes. She scanned the entry chamber through her visor, the rusted metal filling the air with a coppery stink. A peal of twisting metal reverberating in the distance, her arms jerking her AGR-14 up in surprise. She felt more than heard Ashur's voice in her mind, calmly entreating her to relax and breathe.

"AAaarrrggghhh!"

The scream sounded close, stretching out to fill the empty upper levels of the vault and setting her nerves on fire. It tapered off into a wet cry that slowly diminished until the only sound was the steady drip, drip, drip. Another cry of pain or fear echoed all around her, though more quietly than the last, its female origin propelling her forward with a surge of adrenalin. She ran, heedless of danger, deeper into the cavernous vault in an attempt to find the source of the fear wracked sobs.

Jacky felt a clarion call of alarm in her head like a hammer blow as she approached a partially opened pressure door, the metal frame having been skewed by some incredible force. She dropped to her knees and slid into the chamber, feeling the whistle of wind tousle her hair before she rolled forward and twisted 180 degrees. Her rifle swept up and centered on the inky black silhouette that dominated her field of vision, steadfastly refusing to become clearer even with her advanced optics. She caught the glint of metal from a massive set of claws that had just swept the air above her as she slid in through the door and were now hovering in place when they failed to connect.

She could almost sense the confusion from the amorphous shape, the blackness shifting like a beast as it sniffed the air for the prey it could somehow sense but not see or hear. It shifted further into the doorway, the faint light from the now distant opening to the vault bringing its silhouette into some focus.

Her breath caught in her throat as she was slammed full force by the memories of her own escape years ago. The Sandman looked largely the same, the tattered robes it wore over its misshapen form stained from years of blood and viscera. The massive claws swished through the air lazily as the creature continued to prowl the room, searching.

It snapped its head towards a sudden bang and muttered curse, its robes flapping in its wake as it rushed off to its new prey.

She knelt frozen for a moment before icy fear shattered to the fiery core of her anger. She saw red as she stood up and pursued the Sandman, adrenalin fueling her advance as she followed it. It jinked and slid around corners like a wraith, as if conscious of being pursued and some primordial instinct told it to evade in contrast to its normal behavior. It paused on the stairs leading up to the upper level of the atrium long enough for Jacky to fire a burst at it, its answering screech and sudden flight making Jacky lose sight of it. She ran up the stairs, taking 3 steps at a time trying to catch up to it. She reached the upper floor and snapped her rifle up and around the doorway, searching for her quarry.

"Damnit." She muttered, seeing only an empty ledge. She moved quietly along, only then remembering to use her gifts to extend her senses outward, hunting for any trace of the malevolence of the sandman. Strangely, she found only an almost paralytic fear coming from… there, in the room on the other side of a circular window overlooking the atrium. She hadn't come this way before, years ago when she and her friends had come up from the main vault to the exit level. Still, it wasn't hard to find a stairway that appeared to lead up to the area she needed to investigate.

Moving with an almost painful deliberation, she crept into the office and panned left and right for any sign. She heard ragged breathing from behind an old desk set just beneath the window and made her way slowly along the wall to angle herself for a better view.

She gasped at the reflection of her younger self that sat huddled in the shadow beneath the window. A young woman, her vault suit stained with so much blood that it could not possibly have come from her. The girl's eyes were wide and staring, clearly in shock at the nightmare she had found herself in. Concentrating and sending gentle probing thoughts towards her, all Jacky could sense was the overriding fear and brief flashes of her encounter with the sandman. She saw her in the lift, laughing with two others as they joked about reuniting with previous vault dwellers. She saw the door opening and gagged at the stench that had assailed them. She saw the frantic run through the maze of corridors as they were hunted by the sandman, the screams of those falling behind lending her speed. She saw her collapse in what was a dead end, her mind shutting down under the overwhelming weight of the crushing fear that gripped her still.

'She'll have to come out of this on her own', Jacky thought sadly, backing away from the girl too deeply gripped by shock.

Glancing around, Jacky noticed that the terminal sitting on the desk was still powered, its dim green glow barely noticeable in the gloomy chamber. Careful not to jostle the shocked vault dweller, she pulled the chair back and settled into it slowly, her eyes riveted to the flashing green cursor.

Ashur interjected then, talking her through the process of hacking the terminal. With a small exhalation of triumph, she watched as a series of log entries and official Vault-Tec orders appeared on the screen. Browsing through them, she selected the oldest document and began to read.

Nearly an hour later, the ghost resisted the urge to hurl the terminal through the window and gripped the metal desk with both hands, her rage pulsing in tandem with her rapid heartbeat. Vault 18 was one of many vaults created by Vault-tec as part of its contract with the old world government. On the surface, they were part of a program called "Project Safehouse", but in actuality, the majority of the vaults had a far more sinister purpose as part of the secret, "Societal Preservation Program." A rather innocuous name for such a terrible purpose.

Vault 18's experiment hinged on it being populated only by young people, the older residents being asked to leave to join a fictitious settlement on the surface to slowly rebuild civilization. However, there was never any intention to release anyone, as the true purpose of the vault was as a test site for a biologically and cybernetically enhanced super-soldier that was programmed to kill anyone who entered its domain, the upper reaches of the vault. Their bodies would be consumed by the soldier to sustain it and any equipment they carried would be recycled by an automated system which sent the re-purposed items back down to the lower vault.

Project Sandman depended on a steady stream of subjects so the program called for automatic pairing of couples at the age of 16 and the inclusion of chemicals in their food and water which heightened their fertility and libido. Children born would be sent to the crèche, where they were watched over by a team of vault dwellers whose job it was to care for the young. Familial bonds were never established, to have children and give them over to the nursery staff was just the way things were. She shuddered as she thought of the three children she had before being selected for 'surface settlement.'

The Sandman itself was a very short-lived creation. The combination of something called, 'Forced Evolutionary Virus' and extensive cybernetics meant that the soldier would only live for a few years at most, their bodies burning out under the hyper metabolic stresses. Therefore they had to be replaced periodically, by the Overseer.

She closed her eyes tightly as she recalled the oldest vault resident, a cheerful 22 year old named Sandra. A sob nearly escaped her throat as she imagined the sweet motherly redhead butchering her way through the young people she had watched over ever since being selected to be Overseer by the Vault-tec mainframe instead of re-settlement.

The retiring overseer would proceed to resettlement after the new overseer took over, but they always went alone whereas the majority of regular vault residents were sent in small groups. The overseer would be taken to a secret lab where it was brutally exposed to surgeries and procedures to transform them into sandmen. Apparently, the process drove the residents quite mad and their obedience to their program ensured through a neural computer installed at the base of their skull.

Jacky walk in a fugue state until she was out of the room, then with a sudden burst of psionic strength, slammed the massive pressure door closed with so much force the that metal deformed at the point of impact. Confusion warred within her as she realized that the object of her hate and rage was as much a victim as the ones the Sandman killed. It was then that she realized that merely killing the sandman was not going to be enough. She had to destroy the mainframe that ran the vault and created these abominations.

She leaned out over the railing of the balcony overlooking the atrium, scanning for any sign of her errant target. Her sixth sense sang out in warning and she dove to the side as the darkness above her detached from the ceiling and descended in a flurry of flapping robes and slammed into the metal deck. It roared and slashed the air wildly with its serrated metal claws.

* * *

"Sir?" The Enclave tech asked nervously, aware of how volatile Colonel despised being interrupted.

Thankfully for the nameless technician, the Colonel was in an uncharacteristically good mood. He had just come from a briefing with Dr. Braun's team and they had received excellent results from a series of simulations on their latest attempt to synthesize 'vespene'.

"What is it, son?" The colonel drawled, pulling a congratulatory cigar from his breast pocket and patting his other pockets for a lighter.

The technician produced a lighter of his own, he didn't even smoke but the colonel often forgot his and it had kept him on the colonel's good side more than once.

The colonel lit his cigar on the technician's lighter, nodding appreciatively as he puffed on the stogie.

"We received an alert on the Vault monitoring system. Vault 18 has been breached."

"Vault 18, vault 18… you'll have to jog my memory."

"Sandman project, sir."

"Ah yes, that dead end." The colonel stood in the corridor and pondered for a time, tapping his boot absentmindedly as he considered. He didn't care if the 'sandman' escaped into the wasteland. That would be the wastelander's problem, and they were welcome to it. 'Still', he thought to himself, 'there might be some useful data on the mainframe.'

"Dispatch a retrieval team, I want the data on the mainframe."

"And the vault residents sir?"

The colonel paused, the Enclave were suffering from a shortage of manpower. With a thousand pure humans to augment his ranks…

"You're right, send a force to secure the vault. We'll make arrangements to transport the residents here."

"Yes sir." the technician saluted, turning to leave before pausing at the colonel's raised hand.

"Send a status report to Chicago. Inform General Autumn of our progress."

"Yes sir."

"Oh, and good job son. This is just the turn of events we needed."

The technician nodded, somewhat thrown off by the uncharacteristic praise from the normally taciturn base commander.

The technician hurried off and the colonel smiled as smoke wreathed his face, with his pet brood mother spawning more of her soldier zerglings and the latest news today, his was positively jubilant. General Autumn would be pleased as well, his maniacal thirst for revenge against the East Coast Brotherhood and this 'Lone Wanderer' fellow becoming more and more a reality.

He whistled a jaunty tune as he strolled through the complex, intent on calling it an early day and spending the afternoon with his wife and daughter, smiling to himself as he imagined the surprise on his 3 year old's face at his early return.

An hour later, a pair of Enclave vertibirds rose from the retractable flight deck that had extended from the mountain. Six power armored troopers and four technicians performed final checks on their equipment as the pair of flyers made their way southwest to Vault 18.

* * *

She rolled to the left as it stomped forward, metallic foot claws grinding into the deck. It bent down onto all fours and swiped with its left claw, keeping Jacky off-balance. She backpedaled and thumped into the wall behind her, the impact jarring and distracting her for a critical moment. Jacky barely had time to get her bearings and leap aside before the sandman slammed claws first into the wall she had just vacated. She lifted her rifle and fired from the hip, ignoring the mild disapproval from Ashur echoing in her mind. Her round tore through what may have been the creature's shoulder, the impact sending it jerking back with a screech of pain. Using the space to her advantage, she sighted in and emptied her magazine into the sandman's center of mass, each round punching the creature back with a shriek until it hit the railing and promptly fell backwards over it. She rushed and vaulted the railing, landing with cat-like grace near the prone form of the sandman, her rifle at the ready.

She poked it with the barrel of her weapon, a muffled clank issuing from the mess as her AGR-14 struck something metallic beneath the old cloth. She pulled another magazine from her harness and ejected her spent magazine just as the sandman surged up with a roar, sending her rifle and magazine flying from her grasp. It bowled over her, pinning her legs beneath its weight, the hard edges of its cybernetics cutting uncomfortably into her torso. Its hood came free from its bare skull and Jacky nearly screamed at the hideous visage snarling inches from her face. She could barely see Sandra in the abomination hissing and spitting above her, her lower jaw having been replaced with a metal one that distended with a sickening crack wide enough to encompass her entire head. Jacky clamped her left hand on the lower jaw and held it away from her with all her strength, the powerful creature just moments from overwhelming her. Hot drool and old blood dribbled onto her face as she scrambled with her right hand to find a weapon, any weapon. Her hand closed over the ivory grip of 'Lucky' and with a scream of defiance, she pulled the .357 magnum and jammed it under the biting jaws, firing all 6 rounds up into the sandman's head.

The hammer clicked over and over as she continued to fire, the double action revolver turning the cylinder and cocking the hammer despite not having any live rounds to fire. The sandman sagged onto her nearly crushing her under its weight. Getting some control of herself, she concentrated and shoved the thing off of her with a psionic push. Retrieving her rifle and magazine after fumbling in the dim room for a moment, she rolled the sandman over onto its back and felt her heart leap into her throat as the eyes of the sandman turned to regard her.

Was it a reflex action? No, the eyes followed her as she swayed from side to side. Jamming home her fresh magazine, she chambered a round and approached with caution, the sandman's gaze never leaving her face. She turned on her light and fixed the head and shoulders of the sandman in its bright cone. The woman once known as Sandra opened her badly distorted mouth and croaked awfully, its meaning nearly unintelligible. It almost sounded as if it was thanking her. A single tear escaped as the murdering cyborg closed its eyes tightly, the movement forcing more brain matter to ooze from the massive hole on top of its head. With a shudder, the creature's head lolled to the side and a breathy sigh escaped as if to punctuate the finality of the moment.

Equal parts sadness and determination fired Jacky's movement as she grimaced and fired on full auto into the sandman's corpse… making damn sure it wouldn't get up again.

She went back to the Overseer's office and psionically opened the door enough to squeeze back through. She downloaded the vault maps that would help her locate the mainframe. The survivor had blessedly passed out during the fighting, though Jacky was unsure of what to do with her.

Peeling back the layers of security which sequestered the mainframe with surprising ease, Jacky entered the cold chamber with surgical claws hanging limp from the ceiling. She slapped a demolition charge against the towering central computer tower and then placed several more around the room. She tapped the activation button on the detonator as she sealed the bulkheads behind her, the muffled boom warping the door outward and expelling a black jet of hot smoke.

She looked up in alarm as red klaxons began to flash overhead, the warbling trill of the alert system plucking at her pain threshold.

"Summers, the reactors are overloading. Whatever you just did triggered a critical fault." Ashur reported, his eyes locked on the vault console he had hacked into.

"What does that mean?!"

"Best case scenario? Radiation will flood the vault and kill anyone inside it. Worst case scenario, the reactors explode AND releases radiation, which will kill anyone inside the vault."

"Ashur, there are more than a thousand people living here. The crèche alone houses hundreds of children."

"We need to get them out." He stated simply.

"Command, this is Spectre One."

A faint crackle greeted his attempt to call back to base.

He broke into a sprint for the vault opening, hoping that clearing the facility and the intervening rock would allow his signal to get through. He broke out into the dying daylight and tapped his comm again.

"Command, this is Ashur!"

"Ashur, Command receiving. What's wrong?"

"Locate me on beacon and send whatever help you can. We have to evacuate civilians before a series of reactors overload."

'Oh shit' Louise gasped, keeping the presence of mind to not broadcast that last over the comm-net. Reacting quickly, she opened an emergency channel to all friendly forces with a communication system to receive her announcement.

"Attention all forces, attention all forces. Spectre One requests urgent assistance. Civilians in danger from reactor overload. Standby for target coordinates."

* * *

A crackle heralded his return as the courier stumbled slightly on the defunct satellite laying in the middle of the old drive-in theatre. A metallic skitter announced that his escort arrived as well, the quartet of re-purposed robo-scorpions flanking outward to scan the area. He waited for a moment for them to beep that the area was clear before whistling for them to join him as he strode purposefully toward the NCRCF. He didn't know precisely how long he had been gone, but he needed to get back with his friends and let them know everything that had happened.

The Think Tank was very displeased that he hadn't killed Dr. Mobius, and despite his best efforts, it seemed for a time that he would have to kill them instead. Thankfully, what semblance of their humanity… no, it was their scientific curiosity that compelled them, kept that from happening. For all intents and purposes, the Think Tank now worked for him. In exchange for being given executive discretion over Big MT research facilities, he tempted them with the plethora of research possibilities and subjects available in the wastes. Dr. Mobius was very happy to hear about the accord and agreed to stand watch over his colleagues as added insurance.

He had them re-tool his combat armor with saturnine, the stronger and lighter metal much easier to wear than the pre-war suit. In fact, it fit over his stealth suit and once blacked with some concoction of Klein's, did not detract from the suit's stealth properties. His futuristic ensemble was only partially detracted by his cowboy hat and duster, but this was the Mojave after all and he had to maintain some decorum. He dropped into a crouch and raised his weapon at the same time his robo-scorpions chirped in alarm, scanning the horizon for threats. A strange fluttering noise assailed his ears, his eyebrows raising in confused wonder.

A light stabbed down and fixed him in its circular glare, a sudden squall of dust and wind flapping his duster around him and nearly making him lose his hat. He raised his weapon and was about to command the scorpions to fire when the light suddenly extinguished, dazing him for a moment with the after images playing in front of his eyes.

"Maxson! Is that you?!"

"Who is that?" He shouted back, suddenly conscious of the roar of turbines buffeting him.

The flyer landed with a crunch and a shape disengaged from its bulk as the turbines wind down, "Holy shit! It is you!"

He was bowled over by the robed form, excited and relieved giggles replaced by mock rancor as the body began to bludgeon him.

"You had me terrified! How could you!" The voice berated him.

"Veronica?" He meekly questioned, warding off her blows and waving off the scorpions.

"Did you forget me already?" She shrieked, renewing her assault.

He grabbed her flailing fists and pulled her into a tight hug, as much to stop her hitting him as to greet his dear friend. He made soothing noises as she returned the embrace, wrapping her legs around him as if afraid he'd vanish again.

"Where have you been!?" She asked, slightly less agitated now.

"It's a long story. What the hell is that thing?"

"It's a long story." She answered coyly, "Come on, let's get you back to Hidden Bunker. We have a lot to talk about."

Paul nodded in agreement, eyeing the flying machine with some reservation as he allowed himself to be led toward it.

"Wait! My scorps!"

"Your what?" It was Veronica's turn to look surprised as she saw the robot scorpions scuttling forward.

"Eeeek! What are those?"

"No no, don't worr…"

"They are SOOO CUTE!"

"Wait, what?"

Veronica rushed over and began examining and patting the robots appreciatively, making cooing noises at them as if they were puppies. Paul was just as shocked that the scorpions appeared to be preening under her attention. Then he remembered that she was far from being an ordinary girl and the appearance of highly advanced robotic scorpions would indeed catch the interest of a Brotherhood Scribe, nevermind that the scribe in question was Veronica Santagelo.

Eventually, they managed to get the scorpions loaded up into the passenger bay of the flyer, what Veronica proudly proclaimed as a 'Banshee'.

"Sweet ride!" He shouted over the din of the turbines and the roar of the jet engines propelling them through the air.

"It's an amalgam of a Terran ship of the same name and an Enclave vertibird." Veronica shouted back, "This is actually Banshee 2, Banshee 1 is at Hidden Valley!"

The intercom suddenly flashed on just as the Banshee suddenly veered sharply to the north throwing both of her passengers to the side, "Turbines to full!"

"What the hell is going on?!" Both Paul and Veronica shouted, being helpfully re-balanced thanks to some very helpful robo-scorpions.

"Ashur has requested help. Civil emergency. We're heading to his coordinates now."

At the same time, Banshee 1 rose from the underground hangar at Hidden Valley, two marines and two paladins having rushed on board after receiving the emergency alert. Griff took the flight controls himself, the only other pilot aside from Weyland still hadn't completed their VR training, let alone logging any flight hours. He just hoped that the small force could get there in time to assist.

* * *

All four elevators were packed to capacity, the panicked shouts and crying infants adding to the disorienting cacophony of the alarms blaring throughout the vault. Any surprise the vault dwellers had felt on seeing Jacqueline Summers again was overshadowed by the shocking news she had brought. The lift doors opened and the throng surged out almost in a stampede, heedless of the lone figure awaiting them.

Calm…

The crowd quieted, and quickly but quietly moved on, glassy eyes ignoring the dilapidated state of the upper vault as they moved through it, their guide psionically urging them in the right direction. Ashur sent the lifts back down the second group, glancing at his chronometer and hoping that they would have time to get everyone out.

Jacky tried her best to emulate Ashur's trick of calming them, but her inexperience and the sheer number of evacuees made it impossible. She settled for getting as many onto the elevators as she could, fighting through the crowds and sending them up when she judged them ready. Three of them were regular passenger elevators, only used to send groups to the 'surface' when their time came. The fourth lift was a large service elevator, unused since the construction of the vault centuries ago. Thankfully, the large lift worked under protest, its rusted mechanism showering the area with sparks and hideous squeals.

The first of the vault dwellers to reach the surface were the crèche staff, each of forty or so men and women holding and trying to comfort a pair of squalling infants and toddlers. They gasped as the panorama of purple and red colors that splashed across the sky as a bloated sun sank beyond the mountains to the west. The beauty of the molten god laying to his rest was only matched by the stars peeking out to the deepening blue to the east. Another group came up behind them, more children in tow and likewise stood fascinated by the overwhelming scene. Shock rippled through the crowd as part of the night sky seemed to resolve itself as some kind of mechanical bird which roared down from the east and fixed them menacingly with twin lances of white light.

"Attention residents of Vault 18. We are the Enclave. You are coming with us."

* * *

A/N: I appreciate any critical reviews of my writing. I do not have any beta readers, so what you are reading is raw Griff! On another note, I have replaced the foreward with a prologue, so go back and give that a gander if you haven't already. I am slowly going back over earlier chapters to edit them a little for better word flow. I will be doing that in between posting new chapters. As always, thank you for reading!


	21. Chapter 20: Burying the Past

Chapter 20: Burying the past

 _"Forget: Refuse to dwell; let go and loosen one's hold, particularly on memory. To forget is an active – not passive – endeavor."_

~Clarissa Pinkola Estes

* * *

The great man waited until his audience chamber was clear, the flickering torchlight casting dancing shadows on the fabric of his tent. Once he was certain that his men were out of both sight and hearing, he clutched his head and at last gave voice to the agony stabbing through his skull. The rising pressure in his head had made it difficult to hear the reports from his Legates, the imposing Lanius frowning at Caesar's seeming lack of attention. Stepping down from his seat gingerly, every step sent a fresh wave of pain crashing through him, he knelt and retrieved a hypodermic needle filled with the blessed nepenthe he needed.

Resuming his seat, he breathed a sigh of profound relief as the pain finally subsided to a far more bearable level. Time was not an ally of his, and much remained to be done. He was growing more desperate by the day as his condition steadily destabilized. He clenched his fist in anger and frustration, fate seeming to conspire to deny him his Rome. To further salt the injury, an entire century had been lost to these 'Terrans.' So many obstacles lay in his Legion's path and now yet another had presented itself.

Glad tidings of a sort from the Legates he had left in Arizona. His forces would soon receive significant reinforcements as people fleeing from the north and east from some unknown disaster fell easily into Legion hands. The influx of slaves would free many of his men and allow them to march to Cottonwood Cove. Several Centuries were already enroute and would join him inside the week. He felt a twinge of worry at the mysterious calamity which had forced the refugees into his less than tender embrace.

His men were disheartened as well, months of inaction since the loss at Hoover Dam and the more recent loss of one of his most trusted and able Centurions had not sit well with the Legion. Before dismissing them, he charged Lanius with training and assembling an entire cohort to smash these Terrans and then deal with the Mojave Brotherhood. His men needed victories to steel their morale and resolve for the true fight against the NCR.

Vulpes Inculta, the leader of his fearsome frumantarii, was sent to infiltrate the Old Mormon Fort in Freeside. He knew that his former associates in the Followers were there administering to the sick and disabled as they always did. Despite looking down on their mission, a purpose he had once embraced as well, he needed their medical knowledge to stave off his impending doom. He sighed again at the change of plan that required such a bold move, his original plan to abduct Dr. Usanagi forestalled by her capture by the Mojave Brotherhood. Frankly he was surprised at the move, the reclusive Brotherhood rarely did something so bold. But who else aside from the Terrans had such advanced weaponry and power armor?

He took another deep breath to steady the trembling in his limbs as the drug continued to ease the pressure in his skull. It wouldn't be long now until the pain had risen to the point where he would be nearly insensate, if not comatose. The irony was not lost to him; that some tiny affliction would lay him low where the near constant madness of war had not. He could only hope that Inculta succeeded and that his former brethren in the Followers would have the expertise and ability to cure him of this affliction. Time was running out.

* * *

"Contact! We have unknown bogies at target location!" Lt. Weyland announced, her practiced hand rolling the Banshee 90 degrees and accelerating into a wide arc around the blips that had appeared on her radar. "No IFF, they are keeping on station right above the objective."

Ashur raised his eyebrows at the news, the lieutenant's voice sounding tinny in his earpiece. He turned his head toward the cavern entrance where he had already sent several of the evacuees. The vault dwellers gasped as he was seemingly consumed by crackling red energy, leaving no trace that he was ever there. Even before the cloaking field completed forming around him, Ashur raced for the exit, nimbly moving around the milling group of people, their calm façade somewhat endangered now that his psionic influence was terminated. Sliding into a crouch, he slid to the left of the entrance and looked up at the hovering aircraft and the repelling lines being dropped along their sides.

"Spectre reporting. Two aircraft are hovering over the cave entrance, covering the first group of evacuees. They are dispatching ground forces in power armor. I count five… make six tangoes. Wait, they're saying something."

An intimidating voice reverberating over one of the aircraft's tannoy, "You are now prisoners. Lay down any weapons you have and prepare to be taken into custody."

"I assume you caught that?" Ashur queried, readying his AGR-14 and loading a magazine filled with green tipped armor piercing rounds.

"What the hell is this?!" Griff roared angrily, turning to address the paladins in the passenger benches just aft of the cockpit.

"No idea sir." One of the paladins responded, deadpan.

"I thought you were the only guys around that used power armor?"

"Not exclusively, but aside from the now defunct Enclave, no other organization we know of uses power armor. The NCR has access, but haven't fielded it in force from what we've seen. Though with our self-imposed isolation, that could have changed without us knowing."

With a slight crackle of static, Ashur interjected, "I spot marking on the aircraft. An "E" encircled by stars."

"That can't be…" the same paladin murmured.

"E as in Enclave?" Griff retorted, his teeth gritting over finding yet another potential enemy.

The paladin nodded, the mood in the cabin becoming icy as the paladins gripped their weapons tightly and glanced at one another nervously.

"I need orders, Commander. They will have the evacuees surrounded shortly." Ashur urged, the lead elements of the Enclave force landing beneath their aircraft.

"Engage. We're not sitting on our asses while innocent people get taken against their will by these assholes."

'This is not going to be easy', Ashur thought as he sent a mental command to the evacuees to get down, hoping that the move will be seen by the aggressor force as a sign of surrender.

Lining up his shot carefully, he fired a three round burst against the first Enclave trooper, pausing to gauge the reaction Terran technology had against this new type of power armor.

Like the Brotherhood's power armor, ragged holes appeared in a rough triangular pattern over the trooper's breastplate. The hypersonic 8mm rounds punching straight through the layered steel armor and imparting over 70,000 joules of force. The imparted energy liquefied his chest cavity before continuing on their way through the back of his armor. The trooper fell in a clatter of metal sheathed limbs, his squad mates reacting with admirable efficiency as they crouched and brought their own weapons up, scanning the cave mouth for their assailant.

Ashur shifted to the next trooper in line and fired another 3 round burst, this time he didn't pause to observe the effects of his attack, instead pulling back into the cave a short distance and shifting to the right behind a rocky outcropping. Return fired stitched into the cave, the sizzling green bolts lighting up the darkening night and melting the rock he had vacated to sludge. One of the Enclave aircraft lifted up and rotated to the left to face a radar contact coming in hot from the east.

Its two forward cannon spat white hot fire as tracer rounds added to the light show, tinkling shell cases raining down among the cowering evacuees. The approaching aircraft deftly avoided the bulk of the rounds as the Enclave pilot shifted his fire to attempt to hit the approaching aircraft. The banshee's weapons responded in kind, releasing its fury in the form of a single rotary 20mm gauss cannon slung beneath its nose. The roar was like nothing anyone had ever heard, a cross between a zipper being pulled and an ear-tickling buzz with a volume that set Paul and Veronica's teeth to rattling. Weyland's aim was much better than her counterpart, in addition to computer assisted targeting, she simply had more experience fighting in 3 dimensional space than the Enclave pilot did.

People screamed and ran from the fireball that erupted just above them, the aircraft exploding with enough force to send several of them staggering as they attempted to shield their charges with their own bodies. The second aircraft lifted up and away, its engines almost stalling as its pilot red-lined the throttle in an attempt to get away. The pilot slapped his gloved hand against the cockpit glass as if to ward away the fire coming from the second aircraft that they had failed to spot.

The 20mm rounds tore off one of the Enclave bird's wings, the aircraft dropping on its unpowered side and slamming with a crunch onto the rocky hillside. The remaining engine continued to whine as it spun, the aircraft jerking and spinning across the ground like a crazed wounded beast. Flames leapt up from the beleaguered vessel, the fire apparently reaching its fuel or ammunition, detonating with explosive force and finally ending the aircraft's struggles.

The Terran aircraft sought altitude as the ground troopers opened up on them with their plasma weapons, the green flame clawing after them as they evaded. Griff's Banshee shuddered as a bolt of plasma found him, the energy partially melting his stab trim and locking it into a slow pitch.

"Aw crap, they got in a lucky hit, we're going to have to land."

Thankfully, he managed to level it off as they reached the treetops, the marines and paladins running off the debarkation ramp and landing with dull whumps. He let the broken and dead trees slow his forward momentum as his restraints barely able to keep his body from bouncing around painfully in the cockpit. He groaned as his arm was flung back from a particularly hard impact, the loud pop sure to indicate that his shoulder was out of its socket. His head and limbs whipped forward painfully as the aircraft's momentum was arrested courtesy of the massive husk of a long dead tree. Lights danced in his vision and competed with the pain that set his entire left side alight with agony. He barely noticed the gentle vibrations on the flight deck as one of his marines stomped up to the cockpit.

"Whar whew whokey wher?"

The voice was indistinct and sounded as though it was coming from deep underwater, "What?"

"Are you ok sir?" the marine asked again, the roaring in his ears dying down as he fought for focus.

"My arm," He grunted, forcing the words past the agony, "dislocated."

The marine took hold his arm as gently as CMC-300 power armor would allow, the servos whining as they gripped his arm as firmly as he dared without breaking his wrist. The marine bent his arm at the elbow to 90 degrees and gradually rotated his shoulder outward. Eventually, their efforts were rewarded with a gentle pop as the arm spontaneously relocated into its proper position.

Griff breathed his thanks as the pain reduced to a dull ache. He stood up gingerly, careful with his newly re-located arm and joined the marine as they descended to the main passenger deck. He made his way over to the armoring chamber, a small alcove which contained the armatures necessary to assist a wearer into their hard skin. Though he usually preferred to hit the field in simple fatigues, he needed the armor to keep his arm stabilized in addition to providing extra protection against the plasma weaponry carried by their opposition.

He took a deep breath as he slammed his boots down into the waiting platform, the anticipation of the pain radiating from his arm at the impact almost as bad as the pain. He grimaced as the arming chamber came to life and began to fit the pieces of his personal hard skin around him. His marine stood watch at the embarkation ramp for the few minutes it took for the process to complete. Steam billowed around his steel sheathed legs as he stomped ponderously from the alcove, his arm held tightly in place by the armor reducing the chance of it becoming dislocated again. He lowered his visor, the snarling visage of a wolf glaring out from the tinted armor glass. He brought up the squad's disposition on his HUD and noted with satisfaction that they had spread out and secured their impromptu landing position.

"Alright boys, I want a 5 meter spread, move up the hill to our objective."

The Terrans and allied paladins squawked affirmative, Griff moving out with his chaperone to join the blue triangles positioning themselves on his HUD's topographical map. They moved forward in unison, sweeping the area with impalers or laser rifles up and ready. He halted them just before cresting the hill and linked his battlenet with the Adjutant to get a view of what was happening beyond their line of sight. Lt. Weyland, in her own banshee, gave him real-time data on the disposition of the enemy force, the 4 of them that remained firing continuously over the heads of the huddling evacuees and into the cave entrance, the green splatters of hot plasma splashing against the rocky outcroppings in an attempt to flush out their assailant within.

With their attention firmly on the cave entrance and both of their aircraft out of the picture, his force was in the perfect position to flank the aggressors.

For the benefit of their Brotherhood allies, men who had not yet upgraded to the newest iteration of power armor that the Terran's had helped engineer, he spoke his orders aloud.

"We're coming up behind them but watch your field of fire. There are civilians huddled on the ground in front of them and our Spectre friend taking cover in the cave itself. Take out these 'Enclave' and secure the area."

He gave them a moment to acknowledge the orders before he surged forward on servo assisted legs, his massive armored form grinding as they churned the rocky ground beneath him. They rose up onto the rise that preceded the cavern entrance and took in the scene at a glance. Raising his gauss rifle and letting his armor perform the task of aligning his shots, he let rip a short six round burst which shredded the black plate girding the right most trooper. It was over in moments as his team opened fire on the hapless enclave troopers, the whizzing roar of gauss rifle fire competing with the weaponized laser energy as the sound from both slowly died in echoes around the cave.

The team moved slowly, their weapons scanning the area as they surrounded the small clearing with the still huddling evacuees. Griff strode up to the cave entrance as Ashur emerged, returning the spectre's salute.

"Sir, area is secure."

Griff scanned the area and gestured to the vault dwellers murmuring and weeping in various positions of surrender around them, "What is this, Ashur?"

"Summers' people. During her training there was a traumatic psychosis blocking her advancement. The root of which appeared to be tied to her experiences when she left this vault."

Ashur continued to fill in the commander with what information he had concerning Jacky's ordeal, Captain Johnson's gorge rising at the horror of his tale. Later, he would get the complete story from Jacky herself, who had managed to uncover the truth from the secure vault computer banks as to the nature and purpose of this 'Sandman'.

They had returned to the vault hours later, the former vault dwellers safely secured in a newly expanded section of Hidden Bunker and attended to by a small army of knights, scribes and Terrans. All three of their Banshees hovered over the cave entrance, the tinny voice of the adjutant reporting that the radiation levels in the complex below had spiked to lethal levels. Dissatisfied and prompted by his disgust of what the vault represented, he ordered a full bombardment of the cave entrance and surrounded hills. A fusillade of high explosive rocket and missile fire reduced the area to ruin, closing the cave mouth and collapsing the hills onto the vault. Vault 18 would be forever buried, the horrors echoing around its empty, radiation filled chambers trapped beneath tons of granite for all time.

* * *

Linen wrapped limbs flexed and tightened their grips on their spears, the forest of glittering metal points dazzling in the midmorning sun. The valley lit up as the sun crested the ridge and bathed the crimson armored line of legionnaires in its golden radiance. Centurion's barked and their whips lashed and sang in the air, enforcing brutal discipline and forming the lines against their monstrous enemy. Scouts had reported the oncoming horde of claw and fang the evening before, giving the Legion precious time to assemble its hosts and meet them on a field of their choosing. With the sun behind them and the gentle slope of the valley ahead of them, they were cleverly placed to take the most advantage of the terrain per the doctrine laid down by their Caesar.

The line of dust on the horizon was like a storm cloud, flocks of ravens darkening the skies as they preceded the advance. Their raucous caws echoed within the valley and robbed the men of a measure of their courage with the discordant song. Their legate, a squat and ugly man whom the men called, 'toad' bellowed like his namesake as he patrolled up and down the ranks, the dust kicked up by the buggy he rode choking the men, his passage marked with coughs and muttered curses. He pulled to a stop at the head of a formation, the gunner charging the .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the buggy.

Shrieks split the early morning air as the first of the demons revealed themselves at the crest of the hill. A staggered line of chittering dog monsters pawed at the ground and shook the dust from their shoulder claws. Almost as one, the men of the legion felt their breaths catching in their throat at the massive shape floating into view from the dust cloud, the brown billows reluctantly loosening their hold on the behemoth. It drifted sedately, claws and appendages hanging lazily beneath its bulbous mass. All along the line of demons, more of the floating shapes appeared, looking for all the world like cancerous moons tacking into orbit over a nightmare world.

The legionnaire glanced down curiously, a gentle vibration making the rock dance and vibrate beneath him and tickling his sandaled feet. He thought that his nerves were fraying, but noted with concern how the others of his century glanced about in confusion, even the acid tongued centurion pausing his pre-battle rhetoric. He opened his mouth but the words caught in his throat as the ground erupted beneath his feet and an armored carapace of purple and brown surged out from under him, the violence of the eruption throwing him bodily into his fellows. The entire front line of the legion lost cohesion as multiple eruptions of dirt and rock exploded upward as more of the creatures revealed themselves. Then, the screams began.

He held out a hand to his brother, the man's features melting away beneath the green acidic bile that washed over him. He grasped his hand and pulled, his efforts rewarded with a sickening squelch and a lurch as he fell back, clutching only a ragged and bloody arm. He rolled and tossed the limb aside in disgust, narrowly avoiding another stream of the green acid as it splashed in an arc within the broken ranks. Sporadic rifle fire punctuated the chaos, an occasional pained shriek barely perceptible beneath the weight of the screams of dying men and the exultant roars of the enemy. Convinced that his life was measured in moments, he scrabbled along the dusty ground for a weapon, any weapon! His fingers smarted as they grazed a razor sharp spear point, the pain a testament to the small triumph that surged in his chest. He grasped the handle and rushed at the nearest creature, the glinting steel spear point aimed straight for one of the creature's tiny eyes.

Mars guided his arm true, his spear popping the eye in a burst of yellowish ichor. It drove the creature mad, and he felt his arm yanked painfully as the creature tried to dive back down into the ground. He gritted his teeth and pressed the attack, his feet scrambling on the shifting earth as the demon burrowed. With a triumphant lunge, the spear sank into its skull so deeply that his hands were swallowed by the cavern of its eye socket. It rolled, carrying him with it and nearly crushing him beneath its weight as he slid down its carapace on the opposite side. With a shudder, the creature ceased its struggles, its legs curling in the air like a dying radroach.

She perceived the battle, no slaughter, through the eyes of her overlords. She felt the thrill as men melted beneath her roach's acidic bile or were eviscerated by the slashing claws of her zerglings. The Enclave men beside her murmured in appreciation as they beheld the battle with their looking glasses. The urge to swipe their heads off while they were distracted was a powerful lust building within her. But no, not yet. Her brood was not yet strong enough. Even against these paltry foes, several of her brood had been brought low by sheer luck and the numbers that still favored the Terrans. Fully a third of her attack force had been killed, though the battle seemed to be ending with the formation of hundreds dissolved in disarray against her assault.

The vespene analog that these enclave scientist had developed was not as effective as it should have been. She narrowed her eyes at the head enclave officer who had denied her request to feed on one of the scientists to punish their failure. The roaches she had spawned were somewhat lethargic and weak compared to what they should have been, their metabolisms barely able to cope with the substandard vespene she had been given. Hydralisks couldn't spawn at all, the eggs merely pulsing as their withered without a suitable source of energy. Still, the 'Colonel' had promised that the scientists would redouble their efforts and that another batch would be ready for testing in a few days' time. In the interim, they had thrown the failures into this battle, despite that lackluster performance, they proved effective enough to smash this force and reap the reward of the biomass they protected. A tribal settlement lay in the next valley, its paltry wooden palisade that much the weaker without these terrans to defend it. Her overlord noted the fleeing mass of humanity but she was not concerned. Enough of her zerglings remained to run them down and return their biomass to her spawning pools.

She clicked in irritation as the 'Colonel' gestured imperiously at her, motioning for the modified vertibird that they had arrived in. A large cage like carriage had been built to accommodate her bulk and was lifted on steel cables beneath the aircraft. She bristled at being carried in this manner, but was somewhat mollified at the pleasant thought of peeling the man's skin away. Acidic drool dripped in fat ropes from her mandibles as she squeezed her body into the cage, turning to regard the colonel as he climbed into the vertibird. She commanded her overlords to complete the task and bring as much of the biomass as they could collect back to the growing hive cluster. Soon, these 'Enclave' would herald her ascension and the zerg be unleashed to consume this world.

* * *

His weathered hands closed the journal, the damning words within taunting him and his obsessive nature making him relive the shame over and over as he read and re-read the words. He sighed as he set the tattered book down and pressed his hands against his face, as if to ease away the pressure of leadership. He looked up with eyes bleary with weariness at his lieutenants; the laconic Regis glowering at nothing in his seat to his right, the easy-going Jack lounging at the long table with a cigarette hanging lazily from his mouth, Diane regarding the chieftain thoughtfully and Melissa, recently returned from quarry junction and idly running her combat knife up and down Karl's sweating face.

The Legion man protested long and loudly against the courier's machinations. Again and again rehashing the argument that the words of some outsider could not be trusted. But if his words were so useless, why did he try to silence him with his thugs? Why were his words backed up by the book written in Karl's own hand? These and more silenced Karl, though Papa Khan credited his silence as much with Melissa's less than gentle embrace than with the evidence that lay on the table before him. He tried to make a fool of him. Tried to enslave his people, his Khans! The courier's words rang truer than ever and resonated more powerfully with each moment. Claim their own glory. That's what he had said. Four words, four simple words that spoke so eloquently to the spirit of the Khans. He allowed himself a smile, the world after all was a big place, maybe north? He looked up at his advisors and locked gazes with each in turn, the connection between them tangible in that look, the spirit of his intent clear to them despite no words being spoken. Regis got up first, and with barely a whisper slid his knife from its sheath and slipped it between Karl's ribs. His eyes bugled from their sockets, his scream muffled as Melissa smothered his mouth with her hand. Her knife came next, stabbing down into his chest next to Regis'. Jack and Diane came next, hoisting the man up to his feet and slipping their knives into his kidneys. He thrashed in agony, struggling against the grip of the four. Finally free to scream his anguish as Melissa took her hand away, he ululated long and hard into the lodge's ceiling, his life's essence granting power to the scream. Life ebbed and his head sank, his last sight the flash of steel as Papa Khan separated his head from his shoulders.

His body slumped, the blood jetting from his neck stump to splash against Papa's feet. Paying the man no heed, the chieftain addressed his advisors.

"Ready the tribe. We are leaving. We'll slip away when the Legion assault the dam. North. We'll claim our own glory north."

* * *

 **A/N:** _Sorry for the long break, I started a new job and my muse had left me for a time. I managed to finish this Chapter and am hopeful that she will gift me with inspiration to write more soon. Thanks for reading and as always, reviews are welcome._


	22. Chapter 21: Insidious

**Chapter 21: Insidious**

" _I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity."_

~Edgar Allen Poe

* * *

His stomach heaved and flipped while conflicting sensations assailed him, nerves singing in discordance before he felt physically slammed as if by a thunderbolt. He simultaneously felt as though hours or seconds had passed, his sense of time completely sundered. He became dimly aware of the hard floor beneath his hands, a small spatter of vomit painting the floor in front of him. Gentle hands took hold of him and helped him to his feet. As he felt his faculties returning his cheeks burned with embarrassment, a feeling only somewhat mollified by the sickly pale pallor of his Sharon as she gripped a console for balance and the sounds of both Arcade and Luca heaving their own misery onto the floor.

"A most rapturous good morrow on your return to your domicile, sir. I trust you shall find thing things in order and the riffraff contained. Aside from the riffraff you seem to have brought with you of course, a thousand pardons for any slight."

Griff looked around with bleary eyes at the small room they had appeared in, but saw no one aside from the team that he had assembled. He glanced at Courier Six and found him, annoyingly bereft of any ill-effect from the transport, addressing the console.

"Thank you. Please inform the Think Tank that I have returned with something of interest for them."

Paul turned his attention to the Terrans, his face sympathetic as he surveyed them in their various poses. "You did a lot better than I did, first time I transponded. I blacked out completely and woke up minus several organs."

Finally gaining a measure of composure, Arcade and the Terrans explored the SINK in awe at the technological marvels. The various SINK personalities, with the notable exceptions of the Toaster and Mugsy, were all extremely pleased to have new guests.

"Begging your pardon sir, but the Think Tank is positively clamoring for you to attend them at your earliest convenience."

Sighing dramatically, Courier Six led the group out of the SINK and into a small waiting area. Choosing the right doorway, he continued ahead up a small ramp that opened to a large open laboratory space where he was immediately surrounded by… brains, floating brains in robotic bowl like frames with separate monitors displaying eyes and a mouth.

"(^rt$$%* )! #&-%$?!"

"You've returned to BIG MT! Who are those people with you, I HOPE THEY AREN'T COMMUNISTS! Like RICHIE MARCUS!"

"Oh my teddy bear has returned! With more teddy bears, with their… breathing, everywhere… oh my…"

"Breaking News: Talking Lobotom… er, Courier Six returns to the Think Tank! Its purpose? Unknown. Undefinable. Its presence here? Unpossible."

"WHAT IS THIS, A HIGH SCHOOL SCIENCE FAIR? GET YOUR ACTS TOGETHER, YOU'RE MAKING US LOOK LIKE A COLLECTION OF ROUND-EARTHERS!"

"You're always yelling! My receptors can't take it anymore – and neither can my feelings!"

"SHUT YOUR VOCABULATOR OR I WILL HURT MORE THAN JUST YOU'RE FEELINGS! AND THAT GOES FOR THE REST OF YOU AS WELL!"

"I see that your volume is still cranked up." The courier muttered sardonically.

"WE WERE PROMISED TECHNOLOGY! NEW SCIENCE TO STUDY, TO EXPLOIT! TO INCREASIFY AND MAKE BIGGERER AND MORE TECHNORIFIC! PUT THOSE PENIS HANDS TO WORK AND GIVE IT TO US!"

" _ !?"

"Oh, I do so love the idea of peeling away the layers of new science, why, it's almost more exciting than watching you breathe."

His head spun at the numerous voices competing for attention, more so as the brain-bot think tank scientists were not easily distinguished from one another. Though it appeared that the dome on top of their bodies were a different color…

Just then, the large monitor opposite the clamoring think tank flickered on, revealing the sixth member of their group peering curiously at them.

"IT IS I, YOUR NEMESIS, DR. MOBIUS… oh, wait, no. IT IS I, your friend? It's me, Dr. Mobius. Did I hear that the courier had come back with some interesting science?"

"I did, and if you would all kindly back up for a moment, I can introduce you to my friends here and get on with the 'gift'."

He couldn't have produced a more frenzied scramble if he had fired at them with his sidearm. They edged back, bobbing in excitement and even the image of Dr. Mobius on the display showed him eyeing the proceedings eagerly.

"Commander Griff Johnson, Dr. Sharon Johnson," the courier pointed to each in turn, the aforementioned people nodding with barely disguised amusement, "Arcade Gannon and Engineer Luca Giovanni. May I present, the Think Tank. Dr. Klein, Dr. Zero, Dr. Borous, Dr. Dala, Dr. 8 and of course," He indicated the large screen, "Dr. Mobius."

Everyone murmured a quick greeting, except for Borous who muttered, 'get on with it' impatiently. Sharon, Luca and Arcade moved over to the nearest series of databanks, looking over it briefly before setting a briefcase like object on a nearby table and uncoiling a length of cable. A holographic image of the adjutant appeared above the briefcase, an aura of electricity filling the air as the think tank's attention became riveted to the spectacle before them. For her part, the adjutant took in her surroundings but remained silent, the limited AI bereft of curiosity or concern.

With a triumphant exultation, Luca tapped a button on the briefcase, the hologram of the adjutant fading away with a dying whine.

"What? What happened?" Dr. Dala began.

Whatever else she was about to say was interrupted by the lighting in the dome increasing several factors and every screen, save the one Dr. Mobius had pre-empted, coming to life and showing the curvy and otherworldly apparition of the adjutant. Her voice came over every speaker, "Adjutant Online. Integration: Successful. Running diagnostics."

With a beaming face, Luca wiped his hands theatrically, the excitement exhibited by the scientists clearly infecting the normally brusque engineer.

They all began speaking at once, the cacophony of their vocabulators making the humans in the room grit their teeth as it plucked at their pain threshold. Thankfully, noting their discomfort, the adjutant lowered the volume and began to interface with them through their wireless connections, answering their questions at the speed of thought directly through their cortical interfaces. Bobbing happily, the scientists whizzed back to their respective stations, collating some of the data the adjutant had been authorized to share.

Guessing at what was taking place, Sharon spoke up, "As you can see, there are terabytes of data being made available to you on various aspects of Terran technology. Currently, our engineering efforts are somewhat stymied by the lack of a strategic resource we call 'vespene'. It does not occur naturally on Earth so the problem we present to you, is to find a suitable analog that as closely emulates the formula we've provided to you."

"OF COURSE, THE MAN APES REQUIRE US FOR THE REAL SCIENCE! KEEP YOUR PENIS HANDS IDLE AND LET US HANDLE THE REAL WORK!"

Thankfully, though still shouting, Klein's volume had been diminished to a far more tolerable level. Motioning for Luca to accompany them, Paul moved over to join Griff. "Dr. Mobius, Dr. Dala. There is another request we have to make."

"By all means, my sweet teddy bear of teddyness." Dr. Dala cooed, gliding over as suggestively as a floating brain could.

"Uh, oh of course, I'd be happy to help!" Dr. Mobius replied, hesitating before he realized that he was being spoken to.

"I talked to Luca here about Saturnite. He was very intrigued by it. The Terrans use a special process called, 'nano-forging' to work their steel, making it more dense and durable. Luca believes that your Saturnite would benefit greatly from that process and offer a geometric advancement."

"War is coming." Griff stated plainly, "We will need every advantage to survive it, let alone win." He kept quiet about his misgivings about dragging his people into a fight that wasn't theirs, his priority remained getting his people home.

"My teddy bear wants my Saturnite? Oh yes, I am sure we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement." Dala beamed, drawing out the last word, her tone somehow making Griff feel slightly dirty.

"And as for you, Dr. Mobius. Due to the state of disrepair Big MT is in, we need to repurpose some of your robo-scorpions to clear up the facilities and conduct repairs or sterilization where necessary. It's a nice coincidence that the SCVs the Terran's use for such things can be readily applied to your robo-scorpions."

"I consider "coincidence" to be profanity, along with the words, "astrology," "herbal tea," and "luck." So watch it, Potty Mouth."

"Sorry, Doctor."

"That's alright. The point is, you make a good point. It's a good raisin to use my robo-scorpions. I can't wait to get started!"

Conversing with Dr. Klein, Sharon looked over and smiled at Griff as she tucked a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Turning back to the indignant doctor, she continued explaining the locks the Terran's had put on some of the more sensitive data in the adjutant's memory banks. Arcade seemed to be having a heated argument with Dr. Borous, but then again, every conversation with Dr. Borous the courier had had with Dr. Borous seemed heated. He turned to Griff and Luca. "I can show you to Saturnite Alloy Research Center…" Luca waved off his suggestion, punctuating it with a shake of his head.

"He's right." Griff agreed, "We need to get back and meet with these 'Boomers' you were talking about. Having a cadre of pilots, learning curve aside, will help immensely for McNamara's burgeoning 'Lancer Corps'. Mobius here can probably tag a few of those robo-scorpions to escort anyone to the facility.

"Good idea!" Luca exclaimed, already striding towards the monitor to address the eccentric scientist.

Maxson sighed, reluctantly agreeing with the Commander and nodded his assent. He waited a moment for Johnson to say his goodbyes to the people being left behind, pointedly looking away at the tender kiss he shared with his wife. He rejoined the courier and nodded emphatically, the courier stifling a laugh at the smear of red lipstick along the right side of the commander's mouth. Griff lifted an eyebrow questionally, but the courier only chuckled all the harder while trying to wave away the commander's inquiring glance.

He was still laughing as the duo stood just outside and the courier activated the Transponder to take them back to the Mojave wasteland.

* * *

An overturned crate was as good a seat as any, Jacky decided, her weariness allowing her to ignore the splinters poking into her backside. Had it already been two days? She shook her head trying to clear the cobwebs stifling her brain. The Brotherhood had been immensely helpful, opening up a new wing of the Bunker they called home to accommodate the thousand and more residents of her former vault. The evacuees were taking their new circumstances well, even after they were made aware of the truth of their vault and the experiments being conducted there. Though most found a way to be busy, organizing what few supplies they had under Overseer William's direction, many congregated into pockets of malaise within the chaos. She glanced at each, various stages of grief and shock painting their faces while those who moved around them studiously ignoring everything except what was directly in front of them. She knew that people dealt with grief in different ways. Everyone in her vault knew people who had left, friends that they had looked forward to seeing again once they left themselves. To learn that they had been brutally murdered… that the Overseers of the past were tortured and transformed into engines of destruction. It was the height of irony… overseers were chosen by the mainframe for their compassion, they were all viewed as mother or father figures by the rest of the vault. To be turned into something like that, to have your purpose subverted so completely and turned against those who you once loved and cared for… it was monstrous.

Overseer Williams smiled as she directed the work crews, directing the teams to finish clearing up the large series of rooms and coordinating with the Brotherhood scribes to see to their immediate needs. But her smile didn't reach her eyes, the soft green orbs tinged with weariness and an undefinable sadness. Her wild mane of red hair refused to be domesticated, the overseer constantly pulling her crimson locks back away from her face. The leader of the Brotherhood, Elder McNamara, watched over the young woman carefully and offered whispered words of advice and encouragement to the obviously overwhelmed overseer.

They had swarmed Jacky at first, a thousand questions shot at her like machine gun fire, unremitting and unrelenting. It took using her gifts to calm the crowd, the overwhelming sensations nearly drowning her own psyche beneath the tsunami of emotions. She looked down at the sleeping infant in her arms, the baby's thoughts blissfully free of concern or questions. A shadow fell over her and she looked up to see both the Overseer and Elder McNamara standing over her.

"Ms. Summers." McNamara said simply, pausing as if uncertain.

"Jacky." Overseer Sara Williams smiled at her, some measure of warmth finally reaching her tired eyes.

"Pull up a crate." Jacky whispered, her voice sounding like gravel.

The Elder remained standing but Sara took her invitation, looking down at the swaddled bundle in her arms. She cooed wordlessly at the baby, her tiny eyes fluttering open for a moment before closing again in slumber.

Sara sighed and ran her hand back through her hair, gritting her teeth against the mess and the locks falling back over her eyes.

"I don't think I've taken the time to thank you Jacky."

She continued to speak over Jacky's protests, "No, no, let me finish. You put a stop to a great evil… you saved me from a fate worse than death and gave everyone here a chance at living out a full life. They say ignorance is bliss, and it's true, we were happy and content in our ignorance, but it is said that the only thing evil needs to succeed is for good people to do nothing. I can't begin to imagine the horrors you have had to face, the horror that you confronted purposefully. But do know that I and the rest of your family," She swept her arm to indicate the other vault dwellers, "will always be grateful to you."

Tears threatened, the moisture building in the corners of her eyes and a heavy pressure pressing outward from her face. She wiped her eyes aggressively with her free hand and smiled at the kindly redhead.

"I've asked the Nolan to accept us."

Jacky's eyes opened wide in surprise, "We're joining the Brotherhood?" She looked up at the Elder suspiciously.

The overseer took her hand and shook her head, "He didn't ask, in fact, he didn't even mention it as a possibility. They have a rule about admitting outsiders. Under normal circumstances, they wouldn't allow it. But the need is great. For both of us. There are over a thousand of us, but we're lost, directionless. We know nothing of the wastes, of how to live anything but our sheltered, comfortable lives." She nodded in the Elder's direction, who frowned thoughtfully. "The Brotherhood is dying. As we were discussing logistics, he let slip how few people they have. In a handful of generations, they would be gone. We can help each other. It makes sense."

Jacky mulled it over and had to admit that it DID make sense. The Brotherhood had the technology and the knowledge but not the people. Her people who young and healthy but lacked wisdom and the purpose that galvanized the Brotherhood despite the setbacks they had suffered over the years. Her people would breathe new life into the Brotherhood.

She bent her will towards the Elder, suspicious that perhaps this was his plan from the start. His mind was incredibly disciplined but hidden away beneath layers of proud heritage and strict regulations… a profound sadness. She found no trace of an ulterior motive. If anything, she found that he seemed to be wrestling with the implications, hopeful of what a thousand young people joining would do for his beloved Brotherhood but reticent over centuries of steel clad adherence to a codex that clearly frowned on this course of action. He was uncertain, at the nadir of his people's fate and at the fulcrum of a potential watershed for his organization.

She noted his narrowing eyes and withdrew quickly, surmising that he suspected her intrusion despite having no knowledge of psionics.

He spoke up, "In any case, such a decision would take a backseat to the immediate issue. Our food stores will not long support this many people. Our water purification systems are already strained providing for even our diminished numbers. One of the Terran engineers is even now working on that issue with my scribes, but I must remain pragmatic. Unless something happens soon, we will be forced to ration sharply in a matter of days."

"I won't turn your people away, "he stated quickly, noting the rising concern in both Sara and Jack's faces, "but we have to find a solution and quickly."

"I think we can be of help in that." Spoke a new voice, a young man striding up to join them, his clothing and equipment marking him as a Terran.

"Travis, Travis Hardigan." He stated, by way of introduction. "I was coming to see you Elder, I couldn't help but overhear you talking about the lack of supplies."

The Elder eyed the newcomer and nodded for him to continue.

"In the brief time he was here, the courier…" he paused for a moment, noting the blanch from Jacky, "left some seed packets with us that he had retrieved from his time at Big Mt. My wife works up in the command center and found the schematics for an agri-dome that is based on the command center framework. With some modification, we could convert some of the unused space down here into a hydroponics bay. Though any crops we could grow would take some time before providing food, I've been authorized by the Commander to share provisions from our supply depots. There should be enough to keep everyone fed until the bay is producing. Just need the ok from the Elder here."

Nolan McNamara stroked his chin thoughtfully, an errant thought at the Brotherhood's weakness in choosing weapons tech over other, just as useful technology, edging in briefly with a sardonic twist. He shook the thought away and allowed a ghost of a smile to grace his lips.

"Very good Mr. Hardigan. You have my approval to proceed. Please coordinate with Knight Lorenzo and Scribe Taggert on the specifics."

With a smile and a nod, the man turned from the gathering and hurried away to seek out the aforementioned Brotherhood men.

"About our wish to join the Brotherhood…" Sara began.

"I will consider it, that's all I can promise for now." The Elder said, a slight waver to his voice. "But until then, you and your people are welcome here and will be under the protection of the Brotherhood of Steel."

"Thank you Elder."

He smiled at the overseer and fixed Jacky with a brief look before turning on his heel and striding from the room.

"What was that about?" Sara wondered aloud.

Jacky waved off her concern, "Probably just overwhelmed with having a thousand more people to look after, it's probably nothing."

She would have to be more careful about using her powers in the future, the stronger willed seemed to sense her intrusions and were to a degree, able to block her efforts. She didn't want her actions to alienate the Terrans or her people with the Brotherhood after all. Her thoughts drifted to her teacher and mentor, wondering where the enigmatic spectre had disappeared to.

* * *

Their wrists were bound painfully behind them, their fingers starting to lose sensation from the lack of blood flow. They could barely perceive the world around them through the coarse fabric of the hoods that had been wrapped around their heads. Muffled voices drew his attention when pain erupted behind his knee, the swift strike shocking more than hurting him. He dropped to a kneel, fear twisting in his gut like a scalpel.

"To your knees profligate!"

He heard the stifled yelp of his companions as they were similarly struck and commanded. He blinked as the hood was torn from his head, stifling a scream as some of his hair went with it. He and his fellow doctors were in an open tent with lit braziers casting fearful shadows along the crimson waves of fabric. He gasped at the imposing men in legion livery glaring down at him and the other Followers before his breath caught upon catching sight of the man himself.

His eyes narrowed at the self-styled, 'Caesar'.

"Hello Edward."

The nearest Praetorian slammed the back of his head, he rocketed forward and barely catching himself before smacking into the ground. He groaned at the throbbing in his head as he forced himself up and faced Edward Sallow, now Caesar, again.

For his part, Caesar smiled at his former comrade, the gesture holding a small measure of amusement.

"If it isn't my old friend Bill Calhoun."

"We were never friends you narcissistic bastard!"

Caesar held up his hand, forestalling his Praetorian from meting out swift and brutal justice on the man who would dare speak so to Caesar.

He stood up from his throne and approached the three Followers of the Apocalypse, the other two failing to meet his eyes while Bill's eyes blazed with hatred. He chuckled at his former comrade, smiling at the fate that brought them together again.

"Look at us, reunited again! What a fortunate happenstance!"

"Happenstance? You sonofabitch! Your men kidnapped us in the dead of the night! Murdered people whose only sin was being in our care at the time! What the fuck do you want Edward!?" Bill Calhoun surged to his feet, only to be forced back down by the Praetorian with a grunt.

"I didn't know you were there. Figured you would have retired from this naivety you and the other fools cling to. But as it happens, I have use for your skills."

"How ironic. The mighty Caesar needs us naïve fools." Bill spat with a sneer.

Caesar allowed him his ire, knowing that he had to play this carefully to maintain the upper hand.

"That's right. I need your help. And you're going to give it."

"What the hell makes you think any of us will help you!"

"I'm dying." Caesar stated simply. "I suspect a brain tumor from the manner and intensity of the headaches I've been getting."

"Hearing that makes all this worth it, Edward. I hope your final moments are filled with even a tiny iota of the agony you've inflicted on others."

"That may come to pass, but not now. You are going to cure me."

Calhoun's face screwed up incredulously, "You have got to be joking. You honestly think that I'm going to raise a finger to help you? Do you think any of us will?"

The other two Followers looked up at him at that moment, their faces stony with determination as if confirming with their stoic silence the truth of Bill's words.

"Oh yes. You see, I command the Legion with purpose and deliberate care. If I die, Lanius will take over and if you thought I was brutal, then you have not witnessed the atrocity that is the Monster of the East."

"That is a chance I'm willing to take." Bill growled defiantly.

"I thought you might say that. Allow me to offer additional incentive." He nodded over his 'guests' at the men stationed at the door flap of his personal tent. After a few moments, the fabric rustled amid sniffled cries and stifled whimpers. Craning his neck, Bill tried to catch a glimpse and cursed under his breath at the line of women and children being paraded in. Their eyes were downcast, their threadbare tunics barely contributing to their modesty. In truth, their emaciated frames did not give much flesh to hide, their sickly pallor at being malnourished and ill-treated made more horrible to behold in the flickering light of the braziers.

Caesar walked the line of them, occasionally pausing to lift up a child's face to gaze into their fear-filled eyes or caressing the stringy hair of a pitiful woman. He turned with a smile to meet the aghast expressions on the Followers.

"Settlers. The men were either impressed into the Legion or crucified. The children make useful slaves and if they survive to adulthood, they too become soldiers in our glorious Legion. The women, if healthy enough, are useful breeding stock. If not…" Caesar shrugged.

"There are dozens more like these." Caesar explained, indicating the line of dirty slaves, "Hundreds even. And I intend to tie their fate to your behavior." He paused, a thoughtful look in his eyes, "In fact, you've already refused me twice. You of all people know I don't take rejection well, Bill."

Before Calhoun could protest, Praetorians stepped forward and slit the throats of two of the slaves, a young boy no more than ten and a woman. They gurgled, their eyes open wide with panic and horror as they grasped at their necks futilely, blood spurting between their fingers. They collapsed to the rising moans and cries of the other slaves, their behavior restrained under the less than tender attentions of the Praetorians behind them.

"You… you bastard."

"I'll make this simple for you Bill. You are going to cure me. If you refuse, if you delay, if you protest again I will crucify a dozen slaves until you come to your senses. If you attempt escape, I will crucify a hundred slaves. "

Bill's eyes were so wide with shock that the whites shone with unnatural intensity against his tanned face. He could only nod numbly, his fellow Followers nodding as well as they struggled to contain their rising nausea.

"I'm glad we could come to this arrangement! It'll be like old times, administering to the needs of the ill and destitute!"

Bill knelt in silence, utterly broken in spirit. One of the other Followers dared, in that moment, to speak.

"We'll need diagnostic tools. An MRI or CAT scan at the very least to even hope to treat you."

"Of course! I think you will find that I have anticipated your needs. I may have been a mere linguist and anthropologist, but I've remembered my education. My men have stripped the suitable medical equipment from a nearby Vault." Caesar nodded to one of his men, who began barking orders to the Praetorians. They hauled the Followers to their feet and shoved them from the tent, pausing at the entrance when Caesar spoke.

"Oh and Bill? If you fail. I'll do to you what I did to Joshua Graham."

* * *

Her claws played over the pulsing egg with something approaching affection. She held herself back from going so far as to coo over it, her anticipation over the organism growing within nearly making her as maudlin as these Terrans. She had used the last reserves of the sample vespene the Enclave had provided for her to birthing this latest iteration of her plans shortly after emerging from her own chrysalis.

After returning from the culling of the Legion settlement, her frustration at the ungainly form she wore prompted her to effect a mutation into a smaller, more effective shape. To some, the new shape she wore was more akin to the Terran archetype, a change that the Terrans around her had found all the more horrifying for that fact. She was amused at their discomfort. The pleasing curves of her new shape drawing them in as much as her alien physiology repulsed them. In many way, she resembled her mistress, the Queen of Blades. She simply had to adapt to her circumstances now that she was no longer able to birth eggs herself, pinning her hopes on the dozens of larva that even now squirmed through the creep at her feet.

She looked up in annoyance at the tromping boots of the approaching Terran, the scent of their Colonel Eastmore filling her nostrils with his distasteful musk. So weak, so mammalian, so bereft of any significant measure of 'essence'. She shuddered and clawed the hardened carapace of the egg as his voice drawled and increased her ire almost beyond madness. Faint marks marred the pulsating surface of her beloved egg as she turned her disdainful gaze on the intruding Terran.

Tuning out his words, which were recriminations at the less than hoped for effectiveness of her latest spawns, railing against her sensibilities. She drew comfort from the fact that she would not long have to endure this pedantic existence, kowtowing to these weak Terrans. His sudden silence shattered her reverie as she imagined peeling the flesh from his bones and forced her attention. His gaze was firmly on the egg she was draped across possessively.

"What creature are you hatching now?" he asked, his eyes filled more with curiosity than fear.

"Oh, this one is special. A zerg form that isn't a frontline combat form, but something far more insidious." She murmured seductively, swaying over to the colonel and draping an arm over his shoulders and pressing her breasts against his side. The man shuddered in equal parts disgust and desire as she moved sinuously behind him, her smooth and cursedly soft flesh pressing against him.

"What do you call it?" He asked, attempting to ignore her ministrations and focusing on the egg in front of him. He jumped slightly as the egg wiggled fiercely, a small crack forming at its apex and splitting along its side like a fork of lightning. He leaned forward eagerly as the egg exploded with a wet squelch, the creature within shaking off the green ichor coating its carapace. It looked like a long beetle with sharp segmented sections rising along its back and two claws pawing on either side of its armored face. It pulsed purple and skittered on six legs, the tentacles hanging from its mouth quivering as it considered the two of them standing in front of it.

"Infestor." She whispered sibilantly into his ear.

"What the…" The Colonel began, as she tightened her grip on him.

Eastmore jolted as a tentacle shot out from the creature, jabbing him in the head and transfixing him with its strength. He screamed as he felt the pressure in his skull rising as… something, was forced into his head. The brood mother released her grip on him and he hell to his knees, clawing at his forehead and crying out in anguish. His gorge rose and vomit hosed from him as waves of nausea shuddered though him. His vision darkened and he became aware of only a distant rhythmic thumping.

Thump thump.

Thump thump.

He opened his eyes, hearing as if from underwater and every sound taking on a muffled quality. He breathed in through his nose and reveled in the sensations that assailed him, a kaleidoscope of scents that his brain cataloged and understood instinctively. He could hear the zerg around him, skittering about in the caverns as well as the overwhelming presence of the brood mother behind him. He sat up and regarded the infestor fondly, like the warmth one would feel towards a young sibling. The brood mother eased herself into his lap and draped her arms around his neck, he breathed in her scent with eyes closed and shook in ectasy.

' _Look at me.'_ She commanded.

He obeyed, the yellow light glowing from his mutated eyes drinking in his glorious queen. She smiled and he felt her pleasure at a deeply biological level. He gazed at her with loving eyes and murmured, "My life for the Swarm."


	23. Chapter 22: Wild Blue Yonder

**Chapter 22: Wild Blue Yonder**

"Minds of men fashioned a crate of thunder,

Sent it high in the blue;

Hands of men blasted the world asunder,

How they loved God only knew!

Souls of men dreaming of skies to conquer

Gave us wings, ever to soar!

With scouts before and bombers galore. Hey!

Nothing'll stop the U.S. Air Force!"

~ Robert Crawford, The U.S. Air Force

* * *

The boy huffed in his haste, red-faced, as he lugged a munitions case across the metal deck of the subterranean hangar. He dodged an SCV hauling a massive section of hull plating, ignoring the exasperated complaints from the driver and ducked under a metal beam being raised by a crane. He shielded his eyes from the shower of sparks that rained from the fusion welder of a Brotherhood knight and almost lost his grip on the heavy crate as a result. He narrowly avoided colliding with another child, a freckled red-head whose face brightened like a sunrise at seeing him. He mumbled an apology, his face turning a deep shade of crimson as he sidestepped his fellow squire. She was new, one of the Vault 18 evacuees and much to his chagrin, seemed to have taken an immediate liking to him. His stomach fluttered in her presence, equal parts nausea and anxiety making the boy deeply uncomfortable around her. On the other hand, the massive influx of other children had been an incredible boon. Where it once had been only a bare handful of children, and none his own age, there were now dozens, many of whom were similarly scrambling about the busy hangar.

He had heard about the huge group of people that the Brotherhood was fostering in another bunker, his slight frame lending itself to discretion as the famous (infamous?) courier and Elder McNamara argued heatedly. He had gasped when the Elder suddenly quieted and told the courier that he was right. He had never known the Elder to defer to anyone, let alone admit that he may have been wrong. The word of the Elder was law! Their conversation had shifted to framing the announcement the Elder would make so that the other Brotherhood members would understand that accepting the former vault residents did not go against the Codex. It was then that the duo finally noticed his presence, scowling down at him before shoo-ing him off with a message for Head Scribe Taggert.

"Squire!" He jumped at the voice, the angry and impatient tone shattering his reverie. The crate smacked into the deck and spilled the belted 5mm ammunition. Apologizing hastily, the squire scooped the rounds back into the crate and handed it up to the waiting hands of Senior Knight Lorenzo. The man shook his head in exasperation but did not bother to hide the small smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. The squire saluted and hurried away back to the quartermaster, a former vault dweller that had been granted the rank of Lancer Initiate despite not having completed her basic training. Her promotion was due to her age, education and experience with logistics. Apparently the woman's job at the vault was to perform minor maintenance and keep careful track of their supplies. Some of the more diehard Brotherhood grumbled about the accelerated advancement by the new bloods, as they were called, but were somewhat mollified by the fact the Elder promised none would be above Apprentice rank.

He arrived at the staging area, where mountains of crates were stacked in an apparently chaotic fashion though the quartermaster seemed to make perfect sense of the disarray. Despite his best efforts, he could not avoid his red-headed shadow who stood uncomfortably close to him as they awaited further instructions. He cast sidelong glances at the other squires, several of whom snickered openly at his discomfort.

Excitement rippled through the small crowd of children as the yellow warning klaxons began their clarion call, the golden light rippling across the hangar and directing their attention to the rising sound of igniting engines. A pair of Banshees began to vibrate and a furious wind kicked up as their turbines whined ever louder. A pair of knights rushed past and onto the open ramp of the recently completed dropship, sidestepping a SCV as it trundled up the ramp with its load of equipment. With a loud series of bangs, a line of light appeared in the ceiling, sand pouring down onto the aircraft as the massive hangar doors opened. Harsh sunlight lit up the underground hangar, forcing the spectators to shield their eyes as the Banshees rose into the air followed by the dropship. Rockets flared as the trio of aircraft roared forward and out of sight. Their departure was accompanied by a cheer from the assembled men and women, the squires whooping in delight. Eyes bright with excitement, he found himself face to face with the redhead who took advantage of the moment to steal a quick kiss. He stood dumbfounded, his cheeks reddening further as the other squires hooted and howled, some clapping him on the back. He smiled shyly at the girl, her eyes sparkling such a pretty shade of blue.

Above and to the north of Hidden Valley, the three aircraft set their course for Nellis, the Boomers already filling the radio with excited chatter as they eagerly awaited the arrival of the aircraft. The alliance forged by the courier was almost ridiculously easy to broker once he let slip that the Brotherhood had aircraft and needed experienced pilots and maintenance crews to help maintain them.

Lt. Weyland grinned at the chatter, the smile dying as she glanced at her instruments. Her eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she attempted to resolve the image presented by the ground radar.

"All aircraft! Break, break, break!"

She had to hand it to the Brotherhood personnel selected for pilot training, their discipline coming to the fore as the radio chatter died off immediately and every aircraft obeying her orders almost instantly. It proved enough, as the pair of missiles that had been coming for them shot through the hole in their widened formation and continued onward, apparently lacking effective guidance systems. Her instruments traced the missile fire back to their source, the smoky pall hanging over the burning caravan insufficient to hide the massive green skinned monstrosities moving about below them.

"Pelican 1, get some altitude, those missiles don't have much range. Banshee 2, form up on me for a strafing run."

"Roger that Banshee 1."

The super mutants below had fired their missiles up at the big shinies in the sky more out of curiosity than any real malice or intent to shoot the aircraft down. They had nearly finished tying up the humans to take back to camp when the rippling distant roars alerted them to the approaching metal birds and firing at them seemed the thing to do.

"Hey you! Get back here!" One of the mutants howled as the bigger aircraft ascended too high to see clearly.

The others hooted as the other two planes came straight them, hunting rifles and carbines raised in meaty fists, their howls filling the air with their bullets. The answering hail from the aircraft made the super mutants shout even louder in glee, even as several of their number were practically vaporized by the 20mm rounds.

"It's a fight! It's a fight!" they roared, shooting as the aircraft sped overhead.

"Ah shit, abort strafing runs, there are civilians down there. Encircle and lay down suppressing fire." Lt. Weyland shouted, turned back to the Knights in her hold hanging on for dear life, "I hope you boys are ready for action! Deploying ground forces!"

The Banshee began to circle the super mutants, and though they were easier to shoot at now, the side gunners weren't idle as they returned fire with the pintle-mounted miniguns. Rappelling off the opposite side, two knights and one marine descended from each Banshee and immediately began filling the air with laser and gauss fire.

His weapon juddered in his fists as Ramirez's HUD tagged the super mutants faster than he could put them down. Though still somewhat pained by his injuries, he reveled in being back in action. Opposite him, Iara led the two knights from her team to flank the super mutants. Bullets pinged off his plate and suddenly a roaring 8' tall monstrosity was charging at him, a bumper sword held aloft and spittle flying from the creature's meaty lips. He dipped his shoulder and rushed forward to meet the mutant's charge, catching the surprised mutant in his stomach. Servo-motors whined as he straightened up, his motion throwing the green skin over him to land in a cursing heap in the dust. He planted a boot on the thrashing mutant's chest and blasted his face clean off. Raising his rifle and facing forward again, he paused as his suit's tracking computer scanned the battlefield and failed to find additional targets. The knights flanking him moved forward and placed laser shots into the heads of the fallen super mutants, the dozen or so monsters lying about in heaps of stinking green flesh.

"That was fun!" Vasquez smiled, her visor raising and letting the stink of the battlefield fill her nostrils. "I love the smell of death in the morning."

Marco's answering chuckle was cut short with a hiss as pain lanced up his arm. Her exuberance was immediately replaced with concern as she rushed over to him. He waved her off with his left arm as he considered his right. The bionic replacement's calibration was slightly off, the motions from the battle tearing some of the armatures from his connecting flesh. He felt a trickle blood begin to seep from beneath the bandages he still had to wear and groaned at the recrimination Bourgeois was sure to give him later.

Lt. Weyland had the dropship land as the Knights canvassed the area, policing up any useful items from the super mutants. Iara, after forcing Marco back into his waiting Banshee and strapping him in personally, attended to the people who the super mutants had captured.

For their part, the NCR citizens were wide eyed at the people who had come to their rescue, the amazing display of air superiority and rapid deployment cutting through their shock at being captured in the first place. Though the Knights relieved them of a non-functioning plasma weapon and a laser rifle they had scavenged, they compensated them with the hunting rifles and some caps taken from the super mutants. They even patched up their wounds and gave them purified water and food packets! Once they returned to the Mojave outpost, their story was met with skepticism and even outright ridicule by their fellow caravan drivers.

In short order, the trio of aircraft were on their way again, reaching Nellis in minutes despite the round-about route they took in order to avoid most of the settlements along the way. They landed in Nellis with no shortage of fanfare, as it appeared that nearly the entire population were out on the flight-line awaiting their arrival. They had barely cut the power to the engines before the aircraft were swarmed by excited Boomers, Mother Pearl barely able to cut through the throng and approach Lt. Weyland.

"Ma'am." Weyland saluted, a lopsided grin cracking her normally grim Asian features. Somehow, the aged leader of the Boomers was able to disperse the crowd, the sense of adventure and excitement palpable and infectious. Even the Brotherhood Knights and Scribes who had come to integrate the Boomers had been caught up in the jubilation. The SCV began to unload the equipment under the direction of Loyal and Jack, staging the computer equipment that would integrate with the VR flight simulators and train the aspiring Boomer pilots on the new airframes. Mother Pearl was going to pay a visit to Elder McNamara in order to codify their alliance and was largely failing at hiding her glee at being the prospect of riding on one of the Banshees.

That glee was punctuated a few hours later with girlish squeals issuing from the woman as she sat strapped into the copilot's seat, thoroughly enjoying every bank, climb and dive Weyland subjected her to. As they finally settled into the final approach vector to the Hidden Valley hangar, the lieutenant gave her one last thrill by throwing the Banshee into a 720 degree barrel roll. Pearl was still giggling as she disembarked from the Banshee a few minutes later, the assembled honor guard maintaining their poise despite the antics of the older woman and her pilot escort. The quartet of Paladins glanced after her as she walked with Elder McNamara then shared a look with each other before dispersing to their individual duties.

* * *

The war hawk marched with purpose through Hoover Dam, his aides scrambling to keep up with his long strides. Despite the intervening years since his time in the military, he maintained both the haircut and the demeanor of a hardline general. The technicians and NCR troopers stationed throughout the dam withered under his scrutinizing gaze as he swept through on his impromptu inspection.

Colonel Moore stood to attention as President Kimball blew through her office, the non-nonsense approach he had fostered as a general earning him few political points as President. She respected the man, especially given that he chose to personally attend this briefing in response to the numerous reports she and General Oliver had sent.

"As you were." Kimball ordered, making eye contact with Colonel Moore and nodding at her while gesturing out the door.

She moved into the hallway with her commander-in-chief trailed by her aide and together they walked in silence to the briefing room. As they approached the guarded room, they spotted General Oliver and his staff entering ahead of them.

"Room, Attention!" came the expected order as the President walked into the room. An assembly of officers and civilian consultants stood around the large table set up specifically for this meeting.

"Please take your seats."

The president sat at the head of the table opposite General Oliver while Colonel Moore took the chair to his right amid a clatter of people resuming their seats.

"I don't have a lot of time, so let's dispense with the pleasantries and get to the meat of the matter."

An attractive blonde Captain, her uniform markedly different from the normal NCR trooper by virtue of its clean and pressed appearance, stood up and activated a projector. She cleared her throat and began the briefing with a sultry voice, which immediately captivated the attention of every male in the room. Colonel Moore shook her head in a mixture of disgust at the blatant display and grudging respect at the effectiveness of making men pay attention to the intelligence officer.

A map of the Mojave appeared on the wall, with several circles outlined in various colors. The intelligence officer indicated the circles in red first.

"Sir, we've received reports that Legion forces have increased activity on east side of the Colorado River as well as elevating their aggression on targets on the west. Though initially missed by observers, a large force engaged unknown targets at the NCRCF."

"Hadn't that facility been overrun by the inmates?" An anonymous officer asked.

"It had, Lieutenant Hayes at Primm had requested additional forces to retake the facility. That request had been put on hold and was awaiting dispensation when the facility was taken by an unknown faction. Rumor indicates that it may have been the Brotherhood of Steel, based on accounts of individuals in power armor wielding advanced weaponry."

"What do we know about the attack?" President Kimball asked.

"Approximately 120 Legion soldiers, a unit they call a Century, attacked in the early morning hours and breached their defensive perimeter. Though the losses sustained by the alleged Brotherhood forces are unknown, the entirety of the Legion assault was annihilated. This data was difficult to glean and its accuracy questionable based on the conflicting reports received by the patrols sent to investigate."

"Conflicting reports? What does that mean?" General Oliver spoke up this time, his anxiety lending an edge to his words.

"Lieutenant Hayes sent out multiple patrols. They came back with different accounts of what they found. A patrol found a mass pyre and that the entire complex had been erased, another insisted that the site was a bloodbath, bodies of Legion and 'Powder Gangers' everywhere. A third patrol swears the region was patrolled by deathclaws. Only the first report I mentioned was able to be corroborated. It's the one we believe to be the most accurate. We don't have the forces in the area to further investigate."

"What about…" The president began.

"Lieutenant Hayes, sir." An aide whispered.

"Yes, Lieutenant Hayes. Not that he is having the greatest track record, but can't he investigate in force?"

"Actually sir, that segues onto the next point." She indicated one of the blue circles outlining a large section of the town of Primm. "The town of Primm is now under the jurisdiction of a group calling themselves, 'Raynor's Raiders.'"

"Raiders?"

"No sir, the name notwithstanding, there seem to be no resemblance of this group to most Raider gangs and tribes. For one thing, they wear power armor and appear to be maintaining law and order in the town. Latest report is that they defended their half of Primm from a raider assault with," she paused, breathing in audibly, "admirable efficiency."

President Kimball narrowed his eyes as the Intelligence officer continued her briefing, relaying rumors and alleged sightings of power armored individuals, even aircraft sightings. A particularly damning report was made by a caravan company who alleges that they were rescued by the Brotherhood of Steel from a super mutant attack, who flew in on vertibirds before flying off to the north. In character with the Brotherhood, they had any advanced tech taken from them, but surprisingly… the Brotherhood compensated them with standard munitions and weaponry taken from the super mutants! He mulled over the reports, his hand idly tapping on the manila folder that held copies of everything the officer was briefing.

"Lastly sir, Rangers have noted that the Legion appears to be receiving significant reinforcements from their holdings in the east. Intelligence estimates that an attack by legion forces is imminent."

"Can we hold the dam with what we have?"

"We'll make them pay for every inch of concrete they take, sir." Colonel Moore replied evenly, her gaze unflinching.

"I expect no less of you, Colonel. But that's not what I asked."

The colonel blanched slightly, and any subsequent response was pre-empted by General Oliver.

"I've diverted strategic resources to strengthen our position at the dam, they will have a hell of a time taking it."

Colonel Moore took a deep breath.

"No sir."

Both the president and General Oliver regarded her somewhat distastefully.

"That's it? Just no?"

"From our estimates of Legion strength alone, we would be hard-pressed to hold the dam against them. I had believed that victory could be achieved, though with significant casualties and with a necessary shifting of strategic objectives."

The president began to wave away the statement, "Casualties aren't…"

"That's not all sir. I no longer believe victory is possible. If Caesar has received even half of the reinforcements intelligence believes, then we don't stand a chance in hell. With the Brotherhood increasing their activities and the Kings being a menace in Freeside, we're effectively outflanked already."

"Now wait a moment Colonel." General Oliver nearly stood up, clearly affronted by the challenge to his vision of a great pitched battle to decide the fate of the Mojave.

"It's that serious General, Mr. President. Yes, we do hold the high ground with good defensive positions. Against long odds, I would put faith in our troopers to get the job done. But we're outnumbered at least five to one and despite our victory at the first battle of Hoover Dam, morale has deteriorated."

Cassandra was never one to mince words, and the former general in him appreciated her frankness. He respected Colonel Moore's reputation for getting things done with ruthless efficiency and he knew that she was loyal. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. His position was tenuous at best, popular support back home had plummeted in tandem with the economy. Communities were already complaining loudly at the increased taxes to pay for their occupation; a war that most of his citizens didn't really believe in. It reminded him of a historical textbook he had read once, talking about the Old United States military's failure in a far off country called Vietnam. He was determined not to repeat that mistake, but as the historical Caesar famously said, Alea Iacta est… the die is cast. He was committed to this undertaking, he couldn't fall back without losing face and political points and he couldn't press forward without stressing the NCR further with even more taxes. In the end, Kimball reasoned that victory and the subsequent annexation of New Vegas would quell any dissent and assure both his continued presidency and his legacy.

"General Oliver, we cannot afford to lose the dam. It's the NCR's key to the east and New Vegas itself. I will not be deterred or dissuaded from our great nation's manifest destiny. But I am not blind to the difficulties you've had here. I am therefore authorizing the deployment of three additional infantry battalions and a ranger company, Brahmin Barons be damned. I want Chief Hanlon to deploy his rangers to harass and engage Legion forces any time they cross the Colorado."

The General leaned back in his chair, pleased at the outcome of the briefing, though he had to suppress his distaste at using Chief Hanlon's rangers. He disliked the old man, and never forgave him for overshadowing him during the first battle of Hoover Dam with his brilliant tactics. Still, he was nothing if not a patriot and he truly believed in the President's vision of an expanding NCR. With the reinforcements, he could let Colonel Moore finally command that campaign she had been driving for against the Brotherhood remnants and the Freeside detritus. The news of significant reinforcements should give his boys a boost in morale. Yes… all in all, things were looking up.

* * *

The red flames licking the sign in front of the Gomorrah reflected the anger rising in Robert House as he viewed it from the securitron stationed across the strip. The Omertas were still clearly in charge, their intrigues and subtleties transparent to Robert House despite their confidence in their security and loyalty to one another. He knew that they were in league with Caesar, promising the flesh peddlers power in return for betraying him. It was why he directed his agent, the elusive Courier Six, to deal with them. A task the man had not been very diligent at attending to. He was a man used to getting his way, and his increasing ire at the delay making want to lash out with the instruments fully under his command, the securitrons. But he had lived these centuries and built up Vegas by not giving in to impulses fired by emotion; by out-thinking and out-maneuvering all opposition. The sigh that escaped his withered frame was translated by the mainframe with which his mind was connected into a confused screed of error code.

Scanning through his securitrons throughout his domain, his body lurched within his pod in sympathy to the shocked surprise that surged through him. There he is! His eyes narrowed as he saw the Courier, strolling through Freeside as if he had all the time in the world, that foul-mouthed red-head by his side. He shifted his perception to another securitron and watched Maxson walking towards the Old Mormon Fort, the local headquarters for those bleeding heart Followers of the Apocalypse. He knew what the courier would find and as much as it would amuse him to see the Courier get distracted yet again in an attempt to locate the wayward doctors, he needed his errant lieutenant to get back to work. Freeside residents wisely fled before the securitron as House ordered it forward, activating the dormant Victor code he had imbedded in each one to act as his personal representative. The AI powered up and took over the securitron, linking with his other body to obtain up to date information.

"Woohey! Now that is a cattle prod to the ole brain pan!"

' _Victor.'_ Mr. House sent. His mind reaching out to the AI. _'The courier has entered Freeside. He's going to the Old Mormon Fort. Bring him to me.'_

"Seems like I'm constantly keeping that fella from barkin' at a knot. No worries Mr. House. I'll wrangle him and git him to ya in a twinkling of a bed-post."

* * *

She screwed her eyes shut as if that in any way could mute the screams echoing through the rocky caverns below the Cheyenne Mountain facility. Her arms were held immobile by the silent Enclave troopers who were dragging her ever deeper into the bowels of the Earth. Fear made tears squeeze unbidden from her eyes, her heart hammering in her chest at their implacable grip and their steadfast refusal to answer her pleading questions.

It started as rumors, people disappearing from the servile custodial and maintenance staff without a trace or explanation. Then military personnel began to disappear, and finally someone within the Enclave officer corps began to take notice. One of more vocal, Lieutenant Watson, had come into her lab flanked by the two troopers who held her now. The team had looked up at the intrusion, questions dying on their lips as they witnessed the corruption writ upon his flesh. His eyes had glowed with a yellow radiance and scab like tissue covered his left side even over his uniform. When he spoke, it had an otherworldly quality to it, as if multiple personalities were speaking at once. Lifting an appendage that was more _tentacle_ than arm, he pointed right at her, the troopers moving forward without hesitation. She backpedaled and squealed as cold metal hands closed around her upper arms, the protests of the other scientists dying in their throats as the Lieutenant regarded them with his eerie yellow orbs. He swept from the room and moved off in a different direction, his retreating form lost as she craned her neck and called after him to no avail.

A moist warmth wafted up from the depths, bringing with it an earthy stink of flesh and acrid smoke. The screams increased in volume, followed by agonized gurgling cries that faded out before being replaced by another. The cavern opened, the green glow painting everything within in a lurid light. She gasped as she witnessed both Enclave troopers and the zerglings parading a line of wastelanders and Legion people. They were brought, writhing and struggling in their bondage, to the edge of a bubbling pool of viscous fluid and tossed in unceremoniously. Their screams rose in a terrifying crescendo as their flesh melted, the goo sloshing as they struggled to escape. A legion soldier managed to make the edge of the pool before the liquid consumed the lower half of his body, the rictus of death all the more horrifying as his verve fled and the slab of flesh that remained flapped onto the stony ground. A feminine foot idly toed the mass and flung it demurely back into the pool. Her eyes followed the alien foot up the muscled leg to the very clearly nude form of the smiling… woman? Creature? Monster?

"Thank you for joining me, Dr. Usanagi. Despite the changes I had made to myself to be more amenable to your sensibilities, there is only so much zerg physiology can do to mimic you Terrans."

Another captive had their life ended in the pool as the zerg regarded her with bright eyes, the ridged tentacles which composed her 'hair' idly undulating hypnotically.

"Oh don't worry my love." She whispered sibilantly, "That is not your fate."

Rachel Usanagi found her voice, as tremulous as it was, and breathed "What… why?"

"Biomass, for the swarm. I require a great deal to spawn my hatchery. Since assuming this shape, I can no longer lay the eggs to produce my minions. I need more, traditional means. The Zerg hatchery produced larva which morph into eggs to birth a variety of zerg bio forms."

"But, why?"

"Why? You Terrans, always asking why." The brood mother shook her head in amusement. "You will have your answer and many more besides soon enough my love."

The zerg paused, idly stroking the armored shoulder of the Enclave trooper, a statue of armor plating for all the reaction he, it gave. She moved to the doctor with all the grace of a dancer, her long legs gliding like a stick bug across water. She trailed a claw down her face as Rachel squeezed her eyes shut and trembled, summoning up every ounce to courage she had to avoid from recoiling from the zerg's touch. She felt the brood mother's hot breath on her cheek and moaned in fear as a hot and wet appendage licked at her tears. She dared to open her eyes once it withdrew, to see the brood mother licking her wickedly smiling lips.

Her demeanor changed, the zerg's face morphing into a pleading, almost child-like innocent expression with starlit eyes open and unblinking.

"I need your help doctor. The zerg can be so much more. WE can be so much more." She emphasized, her claws gripping her shoulders in an almost consolatory way. "I need you to redouble your efforts. The swarm must have vespene. With it, we can rise from this squalor and uplift this entire world!"

"Uplift?"

"Oh yes. This world will be reborn as a hive cluster for the Swarm. And you all, will herald its birth."

"Never! I'll never!"

She quieted as a single claw stroked down her face to rest on her quavering lips, "Ssshhh… Now, now, no need for such theatrics. You really don't have choices, and once my pet is done, you won't ever again."

The infestor rose up in front of the doctor, the brood mother moving aside just enough to give the creature the space it needed to impale the Terran on its tendril. Rachel's screams echoed through the chamber and up the twisting caverns, a flock of ravens taking flight and cawing loudly at the disturbance.

* * *

 **A/N:** A little slower paced but still moving the story along nicely. I don't foresee much more than maybe 8 more chapters before I'm writing an epilogue and starting my research for my second fic. If anyone would like to submit ideas, feel free to PM me. On another note, I have reviewed the chapter of this story and found a few that fall short of my personal wordcount goals, so I will be going back and doing some minor rewrites and/or additions. No major plot points will be changed, so re-reading past chapters won't be necessary. Please point out any mistakes you feel I've made as I want my pilot fanfic to really set the bar for my future writing. Thanks for reading! Leave a Review!


	24. Chapter 23: Remember Me

**A/N: Warning – the following depicts an act of sexual violence and may not be suitable for all readers. If you want to skip ahead, look for the "end of scene" printed in bold which marks the end of that section.**

 **Chapter 23: Remember Me**

"Greater love has no one that this; to lay down one's life for one's friends."

~ John 15:13

* * *

The man shivered as the delicate looking claw traced the outline of his jaw. His eyes screwed tight against the less than tender attention from the grotesque creature that had orchestrated the demise of his century. The Centurion knelt on the spongy floor within the living structure of these creatures, watched over by infested men in power armor and a brace of the creatures that had slaughtered his men. Standing before him, her obvious and nude feminine features both attracting and repulsing him in equal measure, eroded his usual strict discipline and stoicism.

This Terran had been exposed to a large amount of radiation by her Enclave thralls, specifically the creature known as Braun exhibiting a certain glee at the experiment he had proposed. She had been informed that some Terrans, when exposed to large amounts of radiation, would be transformed into what they termed as 'ghouls'. Her zerg had slaughtered some of them already and though she had initially deemed their essence unworthy of further investigation, Braun had talked her into it. Apparently these 'ghouls', despite their appearance, were hardy creatures who were healed by radiation. A useful trait for her zerg, especially given how much ambient radiation existed on this world. She imagined her swarm's regenerative abilities augmented beyond their already impressive capability and smiled at the implications.

He was one of dozens of men restrained and exposed to an open fusion core, the resultant radiation killing all but one of them. After an unnecessarily painful and invasive biopsy, Dr. Braun had determined that this man was in the beginning stages of 'ghoulification'. All she needed now was to incorporate the fluctuating DNA into her matrix and apply the advantages to her brood. The ruination of the flesh that would soon begin to afflict the Terran before her would be countered by zerg physiology.

She deeply enjoyed his terror and nearly lamented the necessity of ending the pathetic creature's life. He was strong willed for a Terran, and breaking him had been an unusual and unlooked for pleasure from the Brood mother. She considered the changes she had affected to her own physiology, to become more Terran in both appearance and function, tapping her chin thoughtfully as she paced sinuously around the hapless captive. Her eyes flashed in anticipation as she draped her arms over the man's shoulder, breathing in the fear scent that wafted from him and felt her body shiver in response.

Guided by instincts that were foreign to her, she lowered herself to a kneeling position facing the shaking Terran, her knees sinking slightly in the spongy floor on either side of his. She pressed herself up against him, smiling at the wave of revulsion and attraction that rippled through his body. She almost laughed aloud at the low moan of disgust the man let slip from his dry lips, though if that disgust was aimed at her or at himself for his body's reaction to her presence, concerning her not at all.

Languidly tracing the contours of his body with the tips of her claws, she smiled at the delicious sensation of gently parting the skin and watching as small beads of his blood wept from the tiny wounds. She lapped up the blood, tasting the Terran's essence and the changes coming over him as the radiation did its work. She needed more.

She lifted one of the man's arms and took one of his fingers in her mouth, intent on tasting the digit before biting but paused at the man's strange reaction. If anything, the man squeezed his eyes shut all the tighter while his body shook with renewed fervor. She felt a part of his anatomy harden where it brushed up against her pelvis and grew in in both size and heat. Curious, she tore the fabric from his clothing to examine the anomaly, a breathy sigh of excitement forced past her smiling fangs as the man began to struggle against her.

She pushed him down onto his back and held him firm under her weight while pinning his thrashing arms under her own. Though impressive for a Terran, his strength was nothing to her zerg biology. Frowning at the lack of appendages necessary, she mentally ordered the hatchery to restrain him so she could free her claws to continue her examination.

Tendrils came up from the floor and wrapped around the man's wrists, neck and ankles. They tightened enough to secure him, though he continued to thrash as much as he could under the restraint. She edged back, her bottom brushing up against the curious limb and felt it throb in response. She turned a questioning gaze to Dr. Braun, who had edged ever closer and was watching with gleaming eyes.

"He is experiencing sexual arousal, my queen." He replied to her unspoken question. "It is the precursor to sexual intercourse, which is the method used by Terrans to breed."

She cocked her head curiously, looking back at the restrained Centurion and allowing some of her dreads to fall over the man's chest. He gasped at the touch and turned his head away as far as he could, his face a conflicting mask of pain and pleasure. Gently tracing a claw down his chest to the soft mat of hair above his…

"Penis, my queen."

She noted the redoubled thrashing that accompanied the gesture, his penis apparently having reached its optimal size for sexual intercourse. She reached down and grasped it with her claw, carefully to avoid damaging it… for now. She felt her body react synergistically to the strong pulse she felt in her hands, the heat from it pleasant in her grip. An opening between her legs that she hadn't paid much attention to before this seemed to react to the pressure, the opening becoming moist. The size of the opening and the size of his penis could not be coincidence. Purely on a whim, she rubbed it along his thighs, waves of pleasure expanding outward from her hips at the stimulation while the Terran man gritted his teeth against the violation.

Still, grasping him, she guided the member into her and pressed herself firmly down onto his hips, her moist flesh engulfing him as it glided into her with ease. His eyes snapped open, almost furious in their defiance, and with a surge of strength ripped one of his arms free from the tendrils and snapped up to grasp at her. His fingers quested for a hand hold frantically and settled on one of her breasts, the soft flesh pliable under his adrenaline fueled strength. She moaned at the unexpected pleasure of the touch and grinded her hips to pump him in and out of her.

She held his hand in place with one of her own, the battle of their hands mirrored by the increasing tempo of his penis sliding up and down within her. Electric pleasure arced her back as she rocked against him faster and faster, the explosion of sensation trapping the air in her lungs as it arced throughout her body. She felt his penis throb and noted an explosion of liquid jetting into her from his penis. She examined the fluid and found that it was rich with genetic information, inferring that that was how Terrans exchanged DNA to propagate their offspring.

She dismounted him and idly slashed his neck, blood jetting from the wound to splash against their naked bodies. She watched the light dim in his eyes before spearing his chest and pulling his heart free. The hot organ dribbled blood down her nude chest as she consumed the raw flesh. Dr. Braun giggled in pleasure, nearly hopping from foot to foot at the scene. She turned away from them both, ignoring the ripping sounds as Dr. Braun feasted on the man's cooling flesh.

She had sufficient essence to incorporate the advantages into her brood and she had to admit, that she deeply enjoyed the experience. She would have to do that again, soon.

 **END OF SCENE**

* * *

"Tensions are brewing in Freeside between the ruling gang known as the Kings and the large number of NCR squatters seeking refuge there. The leader of the Kings, who would only identify himself as The King, voiced his displeasure, calling the NCR citizens, quote, 'the devil in disguise.' He added he didn't want to see NCR in the ghetto, and called for a mass, quote, 'return to sender.'"

The smoke rising from the Old Mormon fort was the first indication that something was very, very wrong. Cass called after him in dismay when he broke into a run and approached the gates of the Follower's headquarters, which stood wide open to the street. A small group of 'Kings' looked over at him from where they stood just inside the courtyard of the old fort, eyeballing the mess inside.

"Pacer." The courier greeted one of the Kings, who scowled at him in return.

"Well look at what the cat dragged in." Pacer then looked over at Cass, who followed the courier in and sighed at the scene, "Hey baby, I could use a good massage, you dig?"

"If you're looking for something to do, you should put your head in the door and slam it, hard."

"Cool it babe! Stop being a wet rag and giving me the royal shaft! "Pacer protested, his tone mockingly offended.

"Oh, I'll give you a shaft. Straight up your…" Cass retorted, taking a step forward angrily.

"Whoa, whoa." Paul restrained Cass from what was likely about to be a violent and physical response and turned to Pacer with an exasperated air.

"What happened here, Pacer?"

"Are you writing a book? Ask her," Motioning to the approaching woman wearing a doctor's coat and affecting an impressive Mohawk, "we got better things to do." He gestured curtly to his fellow Kings who regarded the area with shaking heads and somber looks before following Pacer out the gate.

A harried looking Julie Farkas had heard the commotion and hurried over to them, her normal shyness around the courier subdued beneath the exhaustion that was writ plainly upon her face.

"Thank goodness you're here!"

She nearly went to embrace the courier until she caught sight of Cass scowling at her from beneath her brimmed hat and fell short with a nervous cough, clearing her throat over-dramatically.

"What happened Julie?" Maxson asked again, indicating the burned tents and wounded laying all over the courtyard. "Where are the other Followers?"

"Gone!" she wailed, nearly moving to hug him again before remembering herself and hugging her chest instead.

She went on to explain that sometime during the night, a group of masked individuals came in and started throwing torches at the tents and had even killed a few of the patients. In the chaos and confusion, several of the doctors had been taken before the enigmatic assailants melted away into the night. The Kings showed up not long after stayed all night and into the morning to help put out the fires, and help with the wounded.

"Thank goodness we stored most of the medical supplies you gathered for us in the western tower. We have enough for now but not enough hands to use them."

"Do you know where they were taken?"

"Aw shit." Cass muttered under her breath, "Sidetracked again."

The courier ignored her and offered her a sympathetic look at Julie's crestfallen expression.

"I'm sorry. I just don't know. It was dark and with the fire…"

"It's alright. We'll get to the bottom of this." The courier assured her.

"I'm afraid that ain't in the cards, partner." The voice behind him made him freeze.

A tense moment passed before he turned around to be face to face… or face to screen with Victor, who was flanked by four of his brother securitrons.

"Seems like you've been shirking your duties partner. Mr. House would like a word."

Julie Farkas was wise enough to back away slowly, though that brand of common sense was lost on Cass, as she stepped forward, her small white fist shaking angrily at the robots.

All four securitrons lifted their arms, the tell-tale rapid clicking indicating that their weapons were being loaded. Paul swiftly put himself in front of Cass and warned her back with a stern look. She looked about to argue further when he grabbed her by the back of her head and pressed into her with a fierce kiss. She was shocked into stunned silence, blinking dumbly while color started to turn her cheeks as bright red as her hair. By the time she came to her sense, the courier had already walked off flanked by the escort. Victor chatted with him like an old friend, despite the acerbic nature of his earlier demand.

Cass, in a rare moment of caution, decided to hang back for a bit and lend a hand there. She'd wait for the courier outside the Lucky 38.

'If he comes out at all.' The thought sprung unbidden into her mind, followed quickly by an angry denial. She thought back to the kiss, her hand tracing her lips, remembering the warmth of his lips on hers and how her heart felt like it was about to stop.

* * *

Bill wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, the 'assistants' provided by Caesar standing mutely in the corner after being curtly told to stay out of the way. There were several instances of their incompetence nearly cost them their patient. Although, would it be that bad if Edward died on the table? Despite any reservations he had, he was bound now, having already agreed to do his best and as a Follower, he took his oath seriously. He regarded the cancer tissue laying in a small pool of clear fluid on the surgical tray. The irony of something so small nearly striking down one of the most powerful men in the wastes wasn't lost on him.

Nodding wearily to his fellow doctors, he and his partner stepped back and let one of their colleagues examine his work and begin to close the small wound in his sinus cavity. The tumor was found to be in 'Caesar's frontal cortex, easily accessed through his nasal passages using trans-nasal endoscopic skull-base surgical techniques. Luck, as it seemed, continued to favor the man. The doctor turned and nodded to Bill, indicating that he found no extraneous bleeding or more evidence of cancerous tissue and started to remove the fiber optic they used as a camera.

As the other Followers repaired the damage to his sinuses, Bill regarded Edward solemnly as the slaves dutifully came forward to take his gloves and wipe his hands and arms with scented water. He frowned at that, silently berating Sallow for his creature comforts while simultaneously leading an organization that prided itself on backward thinking. He shuffled from the tent deep in thought, only broken from his reverie when he fell under the shadow of the massive Legate, Lanius.

The bronze mask he never seemed to be without appeared to glare at him, for his part, Bill did not flinch from the stern gaze and merely stood looking up at the towering figure. Lanius grunted in walked past him to the large tent at the camp's center, joined enroute by several Legion officers. Calhoun shook his head and went to the tent reserved for the Followers use, immediately collapsing on his cot. Despite his weariness, sleep would not come, his mind troubled both for himself, and for his fellow Followers. He wondered how Julie was doing, if she was alright.

Across the camp, Lanius returned the salute given him by the guards and studiously ignored the passive indifference paid to him by the Praetorian. He noted with satisfaction that all the Tribunes and Centurions that hadn't entered with him were already awaiting his pleasure.

"Caesar?" One of the Tribunes asked, a bold man called Skypio. Lanius disliked it when his troops spoke out of turn, his displeasure often displayed with murderous ramifications for the offender. Skypio was a rare exception, a powerfully built man whose deeds and honor were as impeccable as his own. Though often celebrated for his martial skill and brute strength, Skypio was not subtle in his indifference to the praise. The Legate remembered one incident clearly when the man had rebuffed Caesar's praise by saying, 'you wish to reward me? Send me into the crucible to face your enemies, make the fight hard, make the fight worthy.'

"The Praetorian have sealed our Caesar's tent. Only those Followers of the Apocalypse attend him now." The Legate's expression was unknowable behind his omnipresent mask, but he shook his head as if consternated. "However, his last command before this silence remain, and we are bound by duty and honor to do his will."

"And what is Caesar's will, Legate?" Skypio growled, his impatience at being constrained in the tent with his fellows clearly coloring his words with a foul palette.

"The Frumentarii have their instructions. The NCR monorail is to be bombed and the Bear's leader, President Kimball, assassinated." He said this last with clear disdain, his head turning to regard the silent Vulpes Inculta. For his part, the leader of the Frumentarii merely bowed in acquiescence and wisely remained silent, knowing the Legate's intense dislike for him and his ilk.

"We are to divide our forces and strike against Novac, Camp Forlorn Hope and the great dam itself as soon as the last cohorts arrive."

"We should strike sooner, "Skypio pressed, his fist striking the map near the NCR marker for Camp Forlorn Hope, "If the NCR diverts forces to counter our assault, it will weaken their position at the dam."

"Scouts have reported that the NCR is sending additional battalions to bolster their forces." Another centurion added.

Skypio nodded, "We must strike before they arrive and the NCR has the chance to consolidate their forces."

"Do you not trust in the strength of your men to deal with these reinforcements?" A voice spoke from the back of the assemblage.

Skypio visibly shook with rage, but was forestalled from his answer by the Legate. The crowd parted to reveal the speaker to the masked man's gaze, the man withering somewhat under the silent look.

"Celebrated Skypio has more than proven himself in this campaign, something you have not yet done. Until you have claimed as many victories as he has, I suggest you keep your counsel to yourself."

The centurion paled and withdrew, mumbling an apology to the irate Skypio which did nothing to mollify his seething anger.

Grizzled Medes, oldest and some argue, wisest among the men spoke, "I do not doubt that we can overpower the bear even with their reinforcements, but our honor must be tempered with wisdom. Surely victory must not be seconded to false bravado? If we attack now and weaken the bear's hold here, their reinforcements will arrive too late to do anything more than to forestall their doom."

Skypio listened carefully whenever Medes spoke, his expression turning thoughtful as he nodded in satisfaction with Medes' tacit agreement to his plans.

"Anything else?" The Legate asked, looking about the room intently. When it became clear that no further words were forthcoming, he drew himself up to his full height and pointed at Skypio.

"Tribune, take your cohort and annihilate Forlorn Hope. Medes, you are now Tribune. You will take your cohort and assault Novac. Then, when the last of our men arrive and Caesar returns to us, we will take the dam itself."

Skypio and Medes both smiled in satisfaction, the other officers murmuring excitedly and clapping the men on the back. Talk continued long after day fell to night as the officers fine-tuned their plans. Meanwhile, eyes fluttered open and white coated men hurried to the side of Edward Sallow as he regained consciousness, wonder in his eyes as the pain that had plagued him for so long was finally vanquished.

* * *

"I offer many benefits, vacation time isn't one of them."

The courier visibly blanched at the recriminating tone Mr. House used to address him, a far cry from the placating and almost obsequious way he had initially greeted him weeks ago.

"Your making me question your usefulness, you realize." Mr. House continued.

Inwardly, the courier was relieved at the way the one-sided conversation was going, as it meant that Mr. House was unaware of the steps the courier had taken to supplant his employer.

"The Omertas have to be dealt with, and soon. Both the NCR and Caesar's Legion have increased their activity and conflict is imminent. I will not be distracted by those ungrateful flesh peddlers."

The courier remained silent, content to nod and pretend to be contrite, keeping the enigmatic Mr. House convinced that he maintained the upper hand.

"I can't reach through this monitor and compel you to follow instructions, but know this – if you disappoint me, you will pay for it."

"I am sorry that my progress has been slow. I will remedy that with alacrity." The courier replied.

The image of Mr. House flickered on the monitor, the silence stretching uncomfortably as the man considered whether or not the courier was being flippant with him. "Until you do this, consider yourself suspended… without pay."

The monitor flickered and died, the hazy green after-image slowing fading to black. Victor prodded him, gently, and steered the courier back to the elevator.

The door opened with a ding and Victor cheerfully waved at the courier as Paul moved into the elevator, regarding the securitron with a blank look. The doors slid closed and Maxson relaxed, grimacing at the elevator door and giving it the middle finger. As if spent from his minor act of defiance, he slumped against the wall of the lift and ran a hand through his hair.

The elevator dinged and opened up to reveal the dusty ground floor of the Lucky 38 casino. He stepped gingerly out into the lobby, as if reticent to disturb ghosts of the past. He slipped out the front door and stayed in the shadows of the front entrance as he checked over his gear.

His pip-boy was in perfect working order, and the brown ranger duster he wore over the stealth suit did an admirable job of hiding the futuristic black and white ensemble. His weathered 10mm was holstered at his hip and 'Love and Hate' nestled inside the ammo belt he wore around his waist. He knew that once he entered Gomorrah, they would relieve him of his weapons, so he checked to make sure his 'hold out' weapons were secure.

He felt Chance's knife tucked securely to his calf with a leather strap. He was chagrined that it would be difficult to take out quickly, but at least he still had 'A Light Shining in Darkness' tucked into the small of his back by a special holster he crafted specifically for it. He took out a couple spare clips and slipped them up his sleeves, the mere 7 round capacity of the .45 pistol limiting it somewhat if he ran into trouble.

Completing his preparations, he pulled his hat to shield his eyes from the sun before moving towards Gomorrah. He ignored the whispers of off duty NCR troopers and other revelers as he moved through the small throng, the people wide-eyed every time he walked out of the Lucky 38.

'You'd think they'd be used to it by now.' He thought sardonically.

He looked up and watched the flames wreathing the sign for a moment, unaware that just the day before, Mr. House's securitron stood in this exact spot as he ruminated over the Courier's long absence. With a long suffering sigh, he went into the Gomorrah to face the Omertas.

* * *

The Captain sat quietly by himself, the pieces of his gauss pistol spread out on the cloth he had spread over the table. The Command Center staff cast occasional glances his way, but did not otherwise attempt to disturb him as he worked.

He inspected the firing pin with a critical eye before setting it down amongst the other cleaned components with a grunt. He tried to focus on his task, trying and failing to dispel the image of Private West's enthusiasm or the renewed hope glittering in the eyes of the other men that had died to the Legion assault.

He regretted that they had had to leave so quickly, the omnipresent danger and uncertain future keeping him from honoring his trooper's sacrifice any further than a shared pyre and some whispered words.

His throat constricted and his heart felt heavy in his chest, as if being trapped in the body of a man who had failed those who followed him was too much of a burden. For the hundredth time, he wished for a drink, even the foul wasteland swill they called whiskey here would do. But he purposefully kept away from it, the memory of what it had done to Jim before he found his way a poignant reminder of the depths a man could fall.

The dull clang of the bolt striking the table surface shook him from his rumination, his hand darting out to catch it before it rolled off the brown cloth. He examined it before setting it carefully down, his mind suddenly made up.

He dug out the tags of the fallen from where they had nestled in his cargo pocket since their withdrawal. Gripping the holotags in his fist, he rose to his feet, uncaring as he jostled the table and sent his work tumbling to the deck in a gentle patter of raining metal pieces.

"Adjutant, assemble all personnel. Have them meet me on the north hill." He spoke into the air, his voice quiet though assured.

"Yes, Commander." The synthesized voice responding, the two uniformed members standing up from their consoles to regard him curiously.

Ignoring their questioning gazes, he swept from the deck and descended, a plan forming in his mind.

* * *

An hour later, the sun was slowly dipping to the west while the assembled Terrans looked up at the Commander, whispering to one another as they conjectured what the reason for the assembly was. A few of the others clustered further back, curiosity drawing them in the wake of the Terrans suddenly dropping what they were doing and heading for this hill.

Vaultees, Boomers and Brotherhood whispered to one another, the air thick with their murmured conjectures. The area silenced as the Commander cleared his throat, the sound amplified by the speakers built into his CMC-300 power armor.

He blinked at his HUD, the computer registering his gesture as a command. Harsh and high pitched music began blaring from his suit speakers, a cacophony that none of the locals recognized. They noticed how the Terrans froze where they were though, the sudden and simultaneous shift in their stance lending the music a palpable aura. The music shifted and became something akin to a mournful dirge as the Commander planted a gauss rifle barrel first into the ground and draped a set of tags along the pistol grip. The Commander moved to plant another, and his voice resonated from his speakers as he began to sing.

"Lay me doon, in the caul caul groon (Lay me down, in the cold cold ground)

Whaur afore, monie mair huv gaun (Where before, many men have gone)

Lay me doon in the caul caul groon (Lay me down, in the cold cold ground)

Whaur afore, monie mair huv gaun (Where before, many men have gone)

When they come, a wull staun ma groon (When they come, I will stand my ground)

Staun ma groon, al nae be afraid (Stand my ground, I'll not be afraid)

Thoughts awe hame, tak awa ma fear (Thoughts of home, take away my fear)

Sweat an bluid, hide ma veil awe tears (Sweat and blood, hide my veil of tears)

Ains a year, say a prayer faur me (Once a year, say a prayer for me)

Close yir een, an remember me (Close your eyes, and remember me)

Nair mair shall a, see the sun (No more shall I, see the sun)

For a fell, tae a German's gun (For I fell, to a Germans gun)

Lay me doon, in the caul caul groon (Lay me down, in the cold cold ground)

Whaur afore, monie mair huv gaun (Where before, many men have gone)

Lay me doon in the caul caul groon (Lay me down, in the cold cold ground)

Whaur afore, monie mair huv gaun (Where before, many men have gone)

Whaur afore, monie mair huv gaun* (Where before, many men have gone)"**

The last notes of the song echoed through the quiet and somber air, the eerie stillness weighing heavily on the hearts of everyone, even those who didn't know what the song meant. The haunting melody clearly expressed a loss so profound that it carried through unrecognized words to touch each of those present.

The Commander planted the last rifle, the speakers on his armor transmitting his labored breathing as he finished with a final salute. A scattered rattle came up from behind him, as everyone else present mirrored his movement and offered their own salutes. He shuddered in surprise when the distinctive sound of a bugle called out over the assembly, the melancholy notes of Taps calling the ceremony to its end.

* * *

 **A/N:** _Credit: *Song, Sgt McKenzie, written by Joseph Kilna McKenzie after the death of his wife and to commemorate the memory of his great-grandfather, Charles Stuart McKenzie, who fought and died in WW1._

 _** Translated for the reader's benefit_

 _I think of this song specifically on holidays like the 4th of July and Memorial Day as it reminds me of the day I stood in formation while a gentle Afghanistan rain fell. 6 of my brothers in flag draped steel caskets carried up the ramp of a C-17 for their last trip home._


	25. Chapter 24: Bye Bye Love

**Chapter 24: Bye Bye Love**

 _"He felt now that he was not simply close to her, but that he did not know where he ended and she began."_

~Leo Tolstoy

* * *

The miasma of cigarette smoke, spilled liquor and the rancid smell of old sex clung to him and Cass as they walked out into the Gomorrah courtyard. They had spent the bulk of the day quietly listening as incognito as they could, trying to get any information that would help Maxson deal with the Omertas' plan to stab Mr. House in the back. Though Paul didn't give two shits for Mr. House, he knew that a 'family' like the Omertas were better off pacified before he made his own move.

The day had been a bust, all they had for their trouble was a minor buzz from sipping on drinks and losing caps at the tables. He grimaced in frustration as he breathed in the slightly clearer air out in the courtyard, Cass appearing none the worse for wear despite the thick pall that had pervaded the casino.

The redhead nudged him and pointed with her chin towards an attractive but tired looking woman eyeing them… no, eyeing HIM intently.

With no other leads to go on, he walked over to the prostitute, who smiled knowingly at the courier.

"Well, what do we have here, huh? Let me guess. You've heard about the mistress who makes all your fantasies come true."

The attractive red head continued, "So you've followed the call of your desires… all the way to the arms of Joanna, moi. Now that you've found me, I wonder, do you have what it takes?"

Cass squawked as the courier elbowed her in the ribs, just hard enough to forestall the smart ass comment about to leave her lips.

"I always have what it takes." Paul stated with no small amount of cockiness, ignoring Cass's wide-eyed astonishment.

"Oh, confident. I like that. So, what do you want to do with what you've got?"

Maxson smirked, "The better question is what are "you" going to do with it." His voice pleasantly sonorous and flirtatious.

Joanna smiled demurely, "Oh my, aren't you something else…!? I guess you'll have to see for yourself what I can do, huh? Consider it "on the house," honey."

"Lead the way." The courier gestured magnanimously.

"Follow me, hon." She winked and sauntered gracefully, her hips wiggling suggestively as he fell in behind her. He looked back to make sure that Cass was coming and was somewhat taken aback at the daggers she was glaring at the prostitutes back. Her expression went neutral as he looked at her, making him wonder if he had actually seen that look or not. He shook his head and continued to follow Joanna up to her room.

The back of his neck felt uncomfortably warm as he followed the scantily clad woman up to her room, keenly aware of the uncomfortable position he had idiotically put himself in. Though Cass was just a friend to him, a position she made clear to emphasize more than once, he couldn't help but feel an indelible attraction to the fiery woman. That and the nagging thought that Cass's behavior was motivated by jealousy pounded through him in time with his rising heartbeat as he entered the woman's room, Cass closing the door behind them a little harder than necessary.

"Come here, baby. I'm all yours… are you ready to be all mine?"

He winced inwardly as Joanna turned around and licked her lips and a faint growl escaped Cass's lips.

"Um, I'd like to talk first." He replied, trying in vain to regain his composure.

"All right, honey. What do you want to know?"

He smiled at her, channeling as much of his charm as he could, "I'd like to know about you."

"Yes?" She seemed confused at the question.

"What's your story?"

"Oh, nothing special, hon. I'm the best lay in Gomorrah, and that's all you need to know."

"Do you like it here?" The courier was scrambling for a way to get information from her without further putting himself in Cass's bad graces. He already considered that he would have been burned to a crisp by the heat raging in her eyes.

Joanna seemed to sense his reticence, "I like that you're here, doesn't that make you happy?"

"Joanna, you can trust me. Why are you avoiding my questions?"

A sudden look of panic crossed her features, her mouth turning down into a frown while her eyes almost welled up, "I'm… I don't know what's happening to me. I can't feel a goddamn thing anymore, empty and poisoned like the wasteland."

He was somewhat surprised at the sudden shift, as was Cass by the way her mouth worked silently. He often underestimated the gravitas his voice seemed to have, and was still caught off guard when people started inundating him with their life's story.

"I'm afraid I won't make it out of here, not without Carlitos. If the Med-X doesn't kill me first, Cachino or another Omerta will." She continued, a tear coursing its way down her cheek.

"Ha, I look pathetic, huh?" She sniffed, smearing her mascara stained cheek somewhat brusquely, "The great joanna and now… I don't even know why I'm telling you this."

"Tell me about it." Cass muttered, hopefully too low for Joanna to hear.

Paul ignored her, his demeanor the very image of sympathy, "Tell me about Carlitos."

"He was an Omerta that… fell in love with me. They don't ever mix with people outside the 'family' you know?"

She closed her eyes as she continued, her shuddering breaths convincing Maxson that the feeling was… is mutual.

"He was planning to escape with me but Cachino found out about us. So he did something, talked, I don't know, and Carlitos disappeared."

"Cachino talked because Carlitos broke Omerta rules?"

Her tone turned angry and sullen, "Cachino doesn't give a shit about rules, only cares to feed his perversions. He lusted for me, he's done things to me."

She paused, "Look… I'm stuck here, I know that. Carlitos is the only thing that kept me going, and now I don't have anything left."

A sudden memory leapt into his mind as she continued to mention her paramour's name. He met someone in Vault 21 whose name he was sure was Carlitos. They had simply passed sometime in the vault while the courier was resting up from a bad injury. The man's accent was similar to the ones he had heard from the Omerta men around Gomorrah.

"Any chance that Carlitos is alive?" The courier asked, trying to put two and two together.

"If he's alive, he's long gone. The Omertas want him dead, now."

The courier explained in a low voice, Joanna's eyes widening as he described the man he had met to her.

Her hand came up to her mouth to hide her astonishment, "If you had met him, anywhere… I'd do anything to get him back and escape this hell, although I'm not keeping my hopes up."

"It wasn't that long ago Joanna. If it really is him, I'll get him for you."

"Hon, nobody's given me a free thing before. What's it going to be for you, caps, sex, straps, what?"

The courier smirked at her in triumph and relished in her surprise as he said, "All the information you can give me on Cachino and the other Omerta bosses."

* * *

Cass was unusually quiet and sullen as they walked to the renovated hotel of Vault 21. He slowed so that they were side by side and glanced at her, grinning at her goofily. She ignored his attempt to cheer her up and simply pulled her ever present hat further down her head, shielding the upper part of her face from view. He sighed and placed a hand on her shoulder to stop her, his mouth opening to reassure her, somehow.

She shook off his hand and strode even more quickly towards Vault 21, leaving the courier to hurry and catch up. He was conflicted, his friend was clearly upset with him, but why really? She made it clear that it was just friendship between them, though from her words… that term was stretching it. She made is seem more like an enterprising business arrangement. He filed it away for later as they walked down into the Vault, turning his focus on finding Carlitos.

They found him lounging in an easy chair, nursing a beer with an empty expression in his dull gaze.

He glanced up as their shadows fell over him, a scowl coming over his features.

"Hey, scram. Come bug me when I'm at the diner… if you're a real pain in the ass."

"We're here on Joanna's behalf." The courier stated, gauging his reaction to the mention of the woman's name.

The look on his face said it all, "What did you say…? I mean, Joanna sent you? Please, tell me! Is she all right? When did you see her? What does she have to say?"

Both Paul and Cass shared a look that seemed to say, 'weren't you just an asshole to us 2 damn seconds ago?' A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips and glittered in her eyes at the 180 degree turn. Paul smiled back at her, glad that some of the tension between them was beginning to thaw.

"She didn't know you were still alive. I remember seeing you down here a few weeks ago, I mentioned it to her and she asked that I come back and make sure."

"Then she has to know! I'm ready to help her escape, once and for all."

An angry look darkened his features, "Why am I even scared of Cachino and all those fuckers? Joana and I are dead anyway if we don't get the hell out of here."

"Why haven't you already gotten her out of Gomorrah?" Cass shot at him, acid dripping from her tone.

"What, you think I can just waltz in there and take her away? She's their doll now, okay? Besides, I step in Gomorrah and I'm as good as dead, you hear? You don't just leave the Omertas unless it's in a body bag.

"Okay, I'll let her know that you are alive and ready to help get her out."

"Deal! Come back with news soon, you hear?"

Carlitos was practically giddy as the courier and Cass left the Vault hotel, the turn of attitude making Cass almost grin. But as they walked along the strip back to Gomorrah, her expression soured somewhat. He kept quiet about it for now, but promised himself that he would sit her down for a serious talk once they got the two out and the promised information.

"Hey there, gorgeous. I knew you'd be back soon enough." Joana purred, a hopeful and expectant look in her eyes. It made her look… hungry, as if she hadn't had a meal in days and was suddenly presented with a Brahmin steak.

Cass looked equally intent, but for a far different reason.

"I have a message for you, from Carlitos." Paul answered, grinning at the explosion of emotion that played out over Joana's face.

"What? Have you seen him? Have you talked to him?"

He just couldn't contain himself at the joy that lit up the tired looking whore and turned her into a beautifully glowing… woman in love and finally, with hope.

"Carlitos wants to get you out of here."

"He… does? Wait, this changes everything. I can't leave my girls here… And, where would we go even if we escape? No. It's too risky, we'll all end up dead."

"I know a place you can go. You, Carlitos, your girls. You'd be welcome. You'd be safe." He emphasized that last word, knowing how rare a thing it was to promise.

"You sound so sure. Damn it all, you better not make me regret this later. But the Omertas will want us dead. What are we going to do about that?"

"You'll never see them again, you have my word." He assured her.

"To be free and with Carlitos again… Tell him that I still, I – nevermind. Let Carlitos know that we'll be ready when you are."

* * *

Carlitos had been thrilled to hear that Joana was ready to leave. He asked them to get some backup from a couple of mercs who owed him a favor. They were easily tracked down and they all made arrangements to meet up in Freeside that night.

He and Cass had an even easier time smuggling the three women from Gomorrah, simply having them redress in less smutty clothing and walking out the front door was all it took. The lobby was packed and none of the Omertas men scattered around paid the small group much mind at all.

He should have known it was going too easily. After a brief and uncomfortably expressive re-union between Carlitos and Joana, Cass's muttered comment about them fucking right then and there notwithstanding, it appears that it would be easy going for the entire operation.

The courier knew better than to tempt Lady Luck by thinking that way. Whatever anyone else had to say about her, she was a fickle bitch, and she was laughing her ass off right now.

A dozen or so Omertas rushed them and sprayed the street with so much lead that the whistling retorts devolved into a steady high pitched whine. Luckily, their aim was off from rushing to catch the group, giving them precious moments to dive into cover before they were perforated with holes.

Joana and the girls wailed while Carlitos and the mercs swore, there were far too many Omertas for them to have any chance of getting out alive. Paul peeked around the corner of the building, a hunting shotgun in his sweaty grip just as one of the thugs rushed it, surprise clear on both of their faces as they stood inches from each other. Paul broke the spell first, jamming the stock of his shotgun into the man's stomach, doubling him over.

He didn't wait for him to recover, reversing his grip and blasting the man in the face and getting showered with blood and gore in return. He didn't bother wiping himself off as he leaned further out and activated VATS, targeting the next two men coming to test their defense.

The lead man fell screaming, clutching at the ground beef the courier had made of his midsection. The second man simply fell to the ground, his head nought but pink mist and bits of bone raining back down to earth.

The courier jerked himself back as the building corner started to disintegrate under the concentrated return fire from the Omertas. They couldn't last long like this, all the Omertas had to do was pin them down while sending some of their men to flank them. Then they'd be finished.

"Where is that damn backup you promised?" Carlitos screamed, wild panic making his voice break.

"Back up is here."

The group whirled at the announcement, the electronic voice booming and intimidating enough on its own. The owner of the voice shocked the group into stunned silence, only Cass and Paul immune to the effect the sudden arrival had on them.

The figure towered over them, almost eight feet encased in gleaming dark blue steel, the visor of his bubble helm open and revealing Ramirez, hard eyed and grim. His wounds had fully healed and he was a big enough man to not hold a grudge against the Brotherhood, an opinion not shared by his constant companion, Vasquez. Flanking him, a pair of combat robo-scorpions flexed their tails as if eager for the fight, their legs skittering as if readying for a race.

"Marco… where is Iara?"

Marco turned to the courier and smiled before gesturing toward the top of the building they were sequestered behind with his chin. A gesture made unnecessary by the wild howling that issued from Iara's speakers as she stood atop the edge of the roof and let rip with her chain gun, the brass casings tinkling like fairy dust as she rained devastation on the Omertas.

The few Omertas that were able to react in time were bathed in the blood and viscera of their less lucky companions as a storm of rounds chewed its way in a zig zag pattern across the road. It devoured asphalt, trash and flesh with equal relish, the ecstatic laughter from the wild marine actually audible over the dragon's roar of her beloved chain gun. Panic gripped the few remaining thugs as they wormed their way into every available crevice to escape the deluge of steel.

The storm of bullets ceased, accompanied by the whine of her barrels slowing as the woman stepped back from the ledge atop the building with a disappointed mutter.

Marco slammed his visor down and commanded the scorpions forward, the few Omertas remaining flushed from their meager cover by the menacing automatons and their flashing laser fire. Marco took up position and calmly and deliberately mowed the fleeing men down with carefully controlled bursts from his Impaler, the hypersonic rounds ripping the unarmored men to pieces.

The entire combat took seconds, and left a somewhat anticlimactic air for the astonished group.

Paul broke through their shock when he hauled Carlitos and Joana to their feet.

"This is the back-up I was telling you about, and the promise of safety. If you go with them, you will have the kind of second chance that almost no one gets."

Big beard spoke up, "Hell, if I can get me one of those guns, I'd be sure as hell more than willing to sign up!" Little beard nodded his head in emphatic agreement.

A short distance outside of the city, the six people somewhat warily boarded the waiting dropship, Medic Hannigan checking them over as they gingerly sat on the troop benches. Marco and Iara waved cheerily to Cass and Maxson as they loaded the scorpions up and followed them up the ramp.

Paul shielded his eyes as the dropship heaved into the sky on powerful thrusters, it dipped from side to side in farewell before it rocketed forward and out of sight. A split second later, a wave of force pushed a flurry of hot air and dust at them, forcing choked coughs from both of them as they shielded their eyes from the deluge.

Once the dust had settled and the hacking diminished to a less dire level, Paul turned to Cass, intent on asking her to follow him back to Gomorrah. He caught the tail end of a jaw cracking yawn, and noted the tired look in her eyes. If he was half as disheveled looking as she was, it was perhaps better to call it a night and force a meeting with Cachino tomorrow. He hesitated to tell Cass the plan, watching as she pulled her red locks from her face and tried to tuck it back behind her ears. She wiped away as much of the dust and grime as she could, her soft lips pursed in concentration. His gaze zeroed in on her gentle pink lips, noting that they appeared moving an awful lot.

"Hey! Anyone home?" Cass demanded, shaking him from his stupor while waving a hand in his face.

"Yeah, just tired. Thinking it's time to call it a night."

She glared at him sidelong, her mouth pursed in a disagreeable frown for a moment. Her expression softened inexplicably and she nodded, "Well, I guess when you reach your age, you just can't keep up as well as you used to. Let's get you to bed old-timer."

Paul scoffed, "What?! I'm only a few years older than you!"

"Yeah, and don't you forget it!" She teased, her eyes glittering merrily. It seemed as though the tension between them departed as quickly as the dropship had.

They walked back in companionable silence to the Lucky 38, their goal to reach the Presidential suite for a little downtime before House kicked them out to attend to the Omertas. They hadn't needed to worry about that, as House was keeping closer tabs on the courier while he was in city and had seen him going in and out of the Gomorrah all day and night. He hadn't followed him to Freeside, satisfied for the moment that the courier was finally making progress and doing as he was instructed.

* * *

Cass settled into the steaming bath with a heavy sigh, a fine whiskey in her hands and her ever-present hat perched on her head. Paul had insisted that she bathe first, and had given her an odd look when she playfully suggested he come in too and scrub her back.

The hot water and whiskey were doing a marvelous job of relaxing her as she sunk further into the bubbly water and lifted a porcelain leg out to hang over the side of the tub. She hummed to herself and took another swig, savoring the earthy taste of the whiskey before letting it burn on its way down her throat. She idly rubbed her neck and chest, spreading the bubbles around and rinsing the days' worth of grime from her.

She sat up suddenly as the door opened and closed with a gentle click, footsteps on the soft carpet announcing Paul as he walked up to where she lay. Suddenly aware of her bare breasts dripping with bubbles and clearly drawing his admiring gaze. She slumped down so quickly, warm bath water sloshed over the side of the tub and splashed his boots. She could feel her cheeks reddening under his intense scrutiny, any smart ass retort trapped behind a throat that refused to unlock.

He seemed to come to some kind of epiphany, if she had to hazard a guess at the strange expression on his face. It looked thoughtful, determined and resigned all at once. Her confusion was only heightened when he lowered himself to kneel beside the tub.

"Wha…" her words became muffled when he suddenly leaned in and pressed his lips against hers. Her lips betrayed her by opening slightly, invitingly, the rebellion joined by her tongue as she flicked it out to dance against his own. Heedless of the soapy water, his strong arms enveloped her in their solid embrace and pulled her partway out of the tub, crushing her against his broad chest. Her arms moved as if they belonged to someone else, wrapping around his neck and pulling his head further down, pressing his mouth more firmly against her own.

Her movements became frenetic as she abandoned the lies she had been telling him for months, been telling herself, as she overbalanced and toppled out of the tub, her naked body landing atop his. Hands were frantic as they explored his body, his hands massaging and gripping her, seemingly everywhere at once as their mouths and tongues continued to taste each other. She felt him hardening beneath her, the answering warmth spreading from her womanhood making her moan into his mouth with desire.

She jerked and grabbed at buckles and straps, her efforts rewarded as pieces of his armor and clothing fell away. He rolled them both over until he was on top of her, his heat making her dizzy with want. She brought her knees up and hooked her toes into the waistband of his pants, pushing with her powerful legs in jerks to remove the offending fabric. His manhood sprang free from the material and made her heart leap into her throat as she felt its firm strength against her stomach. His pants bunched up around his ankles, unable to be further removed as they were blocked by his boots.

She heard the tearing and almost laughed at her own strength as she held the scraps of cloth that used to be his shirt in her clenched fists. She pulled his head back down in a fierce kiss then ran her fingers down the contours of his chest, stopping just shy of his manhood. Desperate need fueled her as she reached down further with her right, guiding him into her and gripping his back with her left, pulling him down into her.

She exploded with a gasp as he filled her, the delicious sensation of him sliding into her making her see stars. She looked up and saw him, eyes fixed on her with such longing and affection before he descended and wrapped his lips around her breast, the nipple hardening under his questing tongue. Her heart raced as she raised her hips, matching him thrust for thrust as he sloppily suckled at her breast. His tongue danced around her sensitive flesh and made her cry out as waves of pleasure crashed over her.

She rolled over, pulling herself away from him for the briefest of moments, the sudden absence of him inside her almost heartbreaking. She pressed her ass up against him and in seconds, he was inside her again, leaning over her with a hand planted firmly on her hips and the other steadying himself against the floor. She bucked against him like a wild beast, encouraged by his increasing ardor and breathy grunts. He lifted himself up to grab her hips in both hands, gripping them firmly and moving her back and forth along his length. She screwed her eyes shut and bit her lip as she held on for all that she was worth, her release coming with a scream of unadulterated lust. Her flesh trembled in the aftershocks of her orgasm, his continuing thrusts threatening to make her peak again. She gripped the carpet as she felt the waves of a second coming radiate from her pussy. He grunted in an almost pained way as he splashed his seed inside her, the realization of his end making her cum again. He collapsed onto her, his weight welcome and comforting.

"We're doing that again right?" She murmured into his neck.

"Hhmm, I hope you weren't too tired. Because you aren't getting any sleep tonight."

She giggled happily as he carried her to bed, beyond ready for the second round.

* * *

 **A/N:** For some reason, this chapter just flowed right out. Maybe on some subconscious level, I am eager to finish this story and declare victory. Please let me know what you think in the reviews! Next up, 'How Little We know' and the continuing spread of the Zerg!


	26. Chapter 25: Life Goes On

**Chapter 25: Life Goes On**

"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on."

~Robert Frost

* * *

The knight gasped in pain and flailed wildly with his one free arm, grasping Sophia's in an iron grip. His eyes were clamped shut tightly against the acidic fire coursing through his veins. Cold sweat ran in rivulets from his pale skin as he fought against the potent venom invading his body.

Sophia brushed an errant lock of blonde hair from her eyes and reached over to gently pry his fingers from her, smiling down at him in sympathy despite the bruising force he was applying to her arm. The scribe assisting her, a somewhat mousy looking young man who had once been one of the Vault 18 evacuees, held a syringe of Med-X and glanced at Sophia questioningly. Her hair fell back onto her face and she huffed at it in annoyance before nodding in mild exasperation at the scribe. She could not for the life of her remember his name.

The knight visibly relaxed in moments, nerveless fingers loosening their grip on her arm to fall onto the sweat-soaked white sheets of his bed. The scribe dropped the now empty syringe into a bucket and passed her the anti-venom.

The man laying insensate had run across a brace of giant rad scorpions while on patrol. The rest of his team had managed to avoid injury, their enhanced T-72 power armor protecting them from the deadly pincers and barbed tail of their aggressors. This young man was much less unfortunate, having been struck a lucky (unlucky for him) strike at the base of his neck, at the juncture where the armor and helmet met. The stinger had injected a potent venom directly into his jugular, the poison coursing through his system in moments.

Thankfully, his team dispatched the scorpions and administered first aid and slowed its progress with their field kit before the venom could kill him, buying them the precious time needed to get the medical team out there by dropship.

The vessel was purpose-built to emulate the G-226 medical transport used by the Terrans back in the Koprulu sector. The severe limitation they had on vespene meant that it was built using primarily local materials and technology, which meant that the ship did not have the ability to deploy the nanomachines, growth stimulators and pain suppressants via beam like their counterparts. It did boast the most advanced medical and triage station available in the wastes though, and with a competent medical crew, could return a trooper to service in minutes.

They rode in the bay of the only operational medivac now, bay somewhat crowded by the nervous Brotherhood soldiers milling about and casting worried glances at their comrade currently on her table. She tried to pay them no mind, despite the occasional clanging of medical tools being knocked off their perch by clumsy or overly curious knights and paladins. Sensing her irritation and feeling a bit of that himself, the scribe who accompanied her spoke sharply to the men, who had the decency to look embarrassed at the chastisement.

Administering the anti-venom and repairing the vein was her main focus, the laser scalpel cutting away the skin surrounding the angry wound to grant her access. Her hands moved with practiced ease as her mind started to wander…

* * *

' _Tal'Darim incoming!' Came the shouted warning, giving her the precious moments to shield the wounded marauder with her shield. Stalker fire bracketed the area, most of the fire blocked by the lone bunker that still functioned. SCVs slapped and welded armor plates onto the defensive structure almost as fast as the protoss carved pieces of it away, as the missile turrets on either side burned under luminescent beams from a pair of void rays._

 _She rolled her patient out of the way of a group of Goliath walkers, stomping their way past like a flock of ungainly ostriches to engage the void rays. An explosion nearby rocked her onto her patient, eliciting a groan from the severely wounded marauder. She winced in sympathy and finally managed to clamp the bleed on his neck long enough for the auto-sutures to do their work. Her shield was suddenly blasted away with tremendous force, spinning her away from her patient and landing with a thud several meters away. She looked up with bleary eyes at the angry zealot glaring down at her, the only thoughts racing through her head was the smiling face of her infant son and the promise her husband had pried from her to make it back to them safely. She closed her eyes against the inevitable, anticipating the searing pain of the Tal'darim's psi blade plunging into her body at any moment._

 _A dull whump was followed by the mortis cry of the zealot, her left eye opening warily. The marauder lay on his back, one of the Punisher grenade launchers on his arms still smoking from the blast that dispatched the zealot. His blood flecked mouth twitched into a smile and he rasped, 'Sucks to be you!' She shook her head ruefully at the man as she crawled back over to the marauder, retrieving her shield along the way. Color was returning to his cheeks as the nanomachines and growth accelerators did their work, the man looking around for his missing helmet._

 _She held it up for him as he wobbled back to his feet, as she braced herself for the inevitable…_

' _Baby… you really light my fuse.'_

 _Of course, every damn time. Only this time, one of his grenade launchers whumped as a round rocketed into the sky._

' _Whoops!'_

 _The distant explosion made him cringe as much as her glare, to which he only shrugged, 'Damn! Premature detonation!'_

 _She smacked him with his helmet before tossing it into his hands, already forgetting the marauder as she scanned the area for more wounded to care for._

 _By the time they had finally retrieved enough terrazine gas to satisfy their employer, she was almost dead on her feet from exhaustion. She sat in the rocking dropship as it ascended back to the Hyperion thinking only of collapsing in her bunk curled up with her husband and their baby… they'll just have to put up with her battlefield smell._

* * *

The knight's sudden snore shook her from her reverie, she studied the medical readout on the display above him and nodded in satisfaction at his vitals. She stretched and moaned as her back popped in several places, the hours spent hunched over from one medical mission to the next straining her muscles. There were now six other medics in addition to the small army of medically trained Brotherhood scribes, so there was no reason for her to keep pushing as hard as she did. No reason save that it helped to keep her mind off of her family, every idle moment turning into an eternity of agonized worry for her little boy. For the thousandth time since that dark day on Char, she took the dog tag of her husband from its chain and stroked it, apologizing over and over for letting him down.

* * *

"I've been hard pressed ever since Boone took off with that Courier Six fellow." Mannie complained, while Iara and Marco looked at him blankly.

The duo had arrived in Novac as part of their wide patrol route, the Terrans having been asked to check on the town by the Courier while they were out. Aside from the giant dinosaur, there didn't seem to be much to the place. After speaking with several townsfolk, most of whom were only too eager to speak to the newcomers and hope for some trade, they ran into the 'day watchman' Mannie Vargas, who spent his time in a sniper's next built into 'Dinky the Dinosaur's' mouth.

They regretted that action, as the man had inundated them about the troubles he has had keeping the town protected by his lonesome. It took all of his not-inconsiderable influence on the fiery Vasquez to keep her from getting violent with the sniper, her diminishing patience marked plainly by the scowl distorting her otherwise pretty face.

"Ok. Ok," Marco spoke placatingly, patting the air with his hands as if surrendering, "just tell us what you need."

"Just head over to the REPCONN test site west of here. See if you can get the ghouls out of there."

"Just a minute." Marco indicated the door with his head, Vasquez getting the hint and heading out with a huff. He toggled the comm system in his suit to update Sergeant Petreko on their patrol and the request by Mannie Vargas.

"Just a minute, let me get the Commander's ok." The sergeant replied.

Mannie tapped his foot impatiently at the tall marine, his attempts to speak forestalled by Marco's hand held up for quiet.

"You are green to proceed. Petreko out."

Marco signed, having hoped that he and Vasquez would be recalled, but apparently the commander was feeling magnanimous.

"We will take care of your ghoul problem for you, Mr. Vargas. We'll report back in once we're finished."

Mannie's declaration of relief was muffled as Marco unceremoniously closed his visor and turned his back on the sniper, leaving the nest before he had to listen to another word from the mouthy man. Vasquez fell in next to him as he marched out of the gift shop and headed west along the road towards the test site. She didn't have to ask what the result of the talks were, merely sighing over dramatically and hefting her gauss rifle as they made their way to their objective.

* * *

The ghoul's body came apart under 8mm fire, its angry hisses cut short with an abrupt finality as the marines swept the pavilion in front of the rocket test center. They had systemically slaughtered their way here, pausing only briefly to examine the corpses of robe wearing ghouls along the way. Their interest was piqued as the fallen seemed to have been dispatched with a combination of rifle fire and slashing weapons as opposed to anything a feral ghoul could have done.

The two paused outside, checking over the bodies of the ghouls they had killed and their ammo stocks. Satisfied with both, they took up position on either side of the door and in typical marine fashion, blasted through the door, their gauss rifles ready.

* * *

His vision slowly cleared from the fog of deep sleep to find his view dominated by creamy white skin wrapped in burgundy silken sheets. A heady scent of lavender, whiskey and cigar smoke filled his nostrils along with the faint scent of sweat and a residual sweetness that clung to him like a fond memory.

He tried to move without waking her, moving her leg as gently as possible, eliciting a groan from her despite his tenderness. She mumbled incoherently, her arm moving and unintentionally brushing up his thigh and ghosting along his exposed manhood. He stifled a groan as he felt it twitch in response, the soft caress of her fingertips re-awakening his ardor.

She murmured, a smile twitching at her lips as her hand closed on his rapidly hardening manhood, her fingertips exploring the length of it. He couldn't help but gasp as she shifted closer to him, her mouth parting to allow the tip of his length past her warm lips. Her tongue massaged in circles around the tip, the wet heat sending waves of pleasure rippling through him.

He turned onto his side, slowly and carefully so as not to interrupt her ministrations and lifted a smooth leg up and around his head, her moist opening presenting itself to his eager touch. He breathed in the scent of her, her female smell intoxicating even as he tasted her, his lips and tongue dancing amongst the folds and delighting in the taste.

Cass moaned, the sound muffled as he sensed that she was near her release. Her thighs quavered and tightened around his head, vising against his ears and enveloping them in their heat. Her hips thrust upwards, smashing herself against his mouth as he continued to pleasure her all the while feeling the rising quickening in his own loins. He clamped his eyes tightly shut as his entire body shuddered with release, her mouth continuing its ministrations on him even as he spent himself inside her.

They lay in post-coital bliss for an hour before making love again, the day seemingly passing in a blur of kisses and sex as they spent themselves over and over, pausing only long enough to guzzle down some water or staving off the lesser of their appetites with food before attacking each other again.

Daylight failed and the lights of New Vegas cast the high room in a kaleidoscope of rioting colors along the ceiling of the suite. They rose, exhausted but happy and prepared themselves for the trek into Gomorrah.

Cass dressed in form fitting leather pants, her ass wiggling suggestively as she fought the waistband over her hips. She pulled a loose flannel patterned shirt over her head, the courier admiring her firm breasts before they disappeared beneath the fabric. She saw his admiring gaze and smiled ruefully, "Shouldn't you be getting ready too?"

He just smiled at her as she continued to get ready, a long bowie knife sliding into one of her boots as she pulled them on and a scoped .44 tucked into her waistband. He checked the weapon, ensuring that the straps sewed into the back of her pants held it securely before playfully pinching her bottom, her surprised giggle broadening his already huge grin. She pulled a dark brown duster over it all and pulled her hair into a ponytail before perching her trademark hat onto her head.

Cass tilted her head up to meet Paul's as they kissed again, moaning deeply as he pulled her tightly against his still naked body. She broke off the kiss with reluctance and tossed his clothes at him, the accompanying wink promising much more later.

With a degree of reticence he didn't know was possible, the courier eventually got dressed himself, opting for a set of sturdy leather armor with a black ranger duster, 'A Light in the Darkness' holstered inside the duster and 'Love and Hate' tucked into hidden pockets in his shirt. Lastly, he tucked his weathered 10mm pistol into a holster secured to his calf.

To make sure that they would receive a suitable welcome inside the den of iniquity, he dug into a footlocker that he kept stocked with caps and filled pouches with the riches represented within. Cass whistled in awe at the stash, her eyes widening at the heavy sacks that he passed to her to carry.

"How much is in these?" She asked, hefting the healthy weight in her hands.

"About 800 caps each." He replied, gesturing to the four sacks he had filled. The footlocker was noticeably depleted, but was still over half full.

"How in the world?" Cass thought back to her own adventures with the courier, including the time that they dealt with the Van Graffs and Crimson Caravan. She remembered how he had loaded himself down with every bit of loot he could possibly carry, and he could carry a lot! Sometime she swore he was part mule. In more ways than one, she sniggered to herself.

The courier paused thoughtfully, his eyes focused on something faraway.

"When I was growing up, my Ma died. It was just my Paps and I on the ranch, then. He was such a jovial man, always smiling. But the sunlight died in his eyes when she died, so much that I think only his ghost remained, that part of him that loved me enough to keep going on to take care of his boy."

"But the Brahmin Barons came in, as they had for years, and this time he didn't have it in him to fight them off. They bought the land and our livestock for a pittance. We moved to New Reno with the caps they gave us and I watched him waste away as that meager fund dwindled. One day I remember, I told him that I was hungry. He moved, zombie-like to the chest and opened it. A tiny bark scorpion scurried out and there in the middle of the dusty bottom was a single cap."

"He broke down, I had never seen him cry, even when Ma died. But seeing him there, on the dusty floor of the shack we lived in, it was too much for me. My world was shattered. My Paps, the huge invincible bulwark against the world, was vulnerable… was mortal in all the worst ways."

"I don't know how long he knelt there, but eventually he got up and stomped out the door. He came back later that night, bruised and bloodied, with a side of Brahmin beef and a fistful of caps. He had signed himself on to fight at the Jungle Gym, the manager there seeing something in the poor sod my father had become. He did it, night after night, surviving the bouts and more times than not, putting another poor sod on the mats."

"He saved every cap that didn't go into feeding us, setting it aside for me and making sure that I would be taken care of. One night, he didn't come home. I stayed up all night on the step to our home, waiting. I was woken up near dawn, some big fellas standing outside my house to tell me that my Paps was dead. They came in the house without invitation and helped themselves to whatever they wanted. The families that ruled New Reno just saw a burden in me, a wastrel of a kid who took up more care than he could earn and just like that, I was out on my ass."

"My Paps though, he did right by me. He showed me where the stash was buried, outside Golgotha. In it was a bag of caps, like the one you have there, a weathered 10mm pistol and a note. My father was a broken man by the end, but I will never forget his absolute refusal to lie down and die when someone else counted on him. He fought night after night, dished out hurt and took more than a few licks himself. All for his boy."

"I know what it means to be hungry. To look down onto the sum of your life and see that 1 cap staring back up at you. I save everything I can, here and in other places I'll show to you someday. I can't ever go back there. I can't go back to the place that destroyed my childhood and ruined my Paps. So yeah, I got more than my fair share of caps."

Cass had no words, just lifting him up from the footlocker and hugged him tightly. He took comfort from her embrace, knowing that she had her own share of familial tragedy. He held onto her hand as they came apart and leaned down to plant a tender kiss on her lips. Despite the passion that marked their stay in the suite, this one action had more love and tenderness in it than all the rest. It was in that moment that Cass knew that the courier loved her.

* * *

"Do you think they're ok?"

Her voice broke the eerie silence as Sharon and Griff lay in their bunk at the heart of the command center.

He paused before answering, hesitant to add his voice to the gentle rumbling silence of the chamber. He thought of their children, Emmaline with her sparkling eyes and long mahogany hair. So smart and kind. Maya, her bright blue eyes always inquisitive and tinkling with mischief. He sighed profoundly, the ache making his heart feel so heavy he was afraid that it would drop down through his back to thud on the deck like an iron weight.

"Dr. Hanson will keep an eye on them. They have your sister and everyone else on Haven to look after them. They'll be fine until we get back."

"Will we? Get back?" Sharon wondered aloud, worry gnawing at her.

"We will." Griff said firmly, his stony expression brooking no dissent.

Before any more words could be said, the intercom chirped.

"Commander?" The tinny voice crackled.

"Go ahead." His voice colored with the relief he felt at the interruption to the dark path Sharon and he were about to descend.

He shared a knowing glance with Sharon, noting the same welcome to the distraction in her features, though her tendency to pick at her fingernails was in full force.

"We have contacts on mid-range. Three unknowns at bearing 42 mark 23."

"That's in the direction of Vault 18. IFF?"

"Negative on IFF sir. If they have ident, they aren't squawking."

"What are they doing?"

"According to scans, they haven't moved."

It's a risk, he thought, as he considered having the adjutant perform a Scanner sweep of the area. But something in his gut told him that the mysterious visitors weren't friendly.

"They might be more of those 'Enclave' types." Sharon remarked, confirming his fears.

Griff nodded and stood up, "Have Weyland, Summers and Hannigan meet me at the hangar bay. Inform Pearl and McNamara that we're investigating."

"Yes Sir." Olivia cut the communication with Commander Johnson and looked up at the wide-eyed Joanna. "It's time to get to work."

* * *

"I'm going to kill that pendejo."

Marco sighed for the hundredth time as Iara continued to rant about the ghoul Harlan, the gruff man sending them out on an errand to discover the fate of his paramour. They now crouched as much as their armor allowed behind the scant cover provided by the door frame. The gantry in front of the door was aflame, reeking of hot metal and volatile fuel as the nightkin jailor laughed maniacally while firing some kind of flame weapon.

"Do you mean the one shooting at us or the one who sent us here in the first place?"

She glared at him before answering, "Both!"

Marco shrugged, the massive shoulders of his hardskin bobbing up and down almost comically. He flicked off the safety of a flashbang and tossed it at the nightkin, the flames licking at his arm as he threw and causing his HUD to begin blaring alarms at him.

The fire tapered off as the creature shifted away from the grenade, curiously looking at the canister as he did so. He had moved a good ten feet when the flashbang detonated, inundating him with a riot of light and noise. He growled and fired his incinerator in an arc all around him, spraying the area with miniature fireballs.

Iara and Marco leaned around the corner and fired on full auto, the gauss rifles juddering in their fists. Sixty rounds perforated the area where the nightkin stood, more than a few puncturing his body and tearing tissue out through his back. He slumped down into an ignominious heap in a pool of his own viscera, the flaming muzzle of his weapon clattering onto the gantry.

Ensuring that the area was now clear, Marco stayed at the doorway to keep watch while Iara leapt down to check the rooms on the lower floor. Empty room after empty room made her ire rise ever higher as her legendarily tiny margin of patience diminished even more. With a huff, she peered into another room, expelling her breath in a profound sigh as she saw the tattered cloth framing the female ghoul. She bent down and lifted the cloth from her face, the rictus of pain painted clearly on the poor creature's face almost making her recoil in horror.

"I'm sorry this happened to you." Vasquez whispered, before replacing the cloth covering her face and standing up.

"Marco, I found her. She's gone."

The mood was somber as she rejoined Ramirez at the doorway. They moved away from the tomb to relay the sad news to Harlan.

 _Several minutes later…_

"He couldn't have warned us about all these fucking traps!?" She screamed after the 3rd bear trap clamped onto her armored foot, forcing her to bend down to wrench the rusted jaws off. Their armor had bore the brunt of several of the ghoul's defenses, including several frag mines disguised as mere lumps the same color as the concrete floor. Though deadly to an unarmored person, the explosives damaged their hardskins enough to make their HUD flash amber warning lights.

Just when they thought that they had finally reached the terminal with the information the crazy nightkin leader wanted, the damn computer exploded right in their faces! Thankfully, both had had their visors down, or else the exploding computer would have made them much less attractive. Iara's mood could get no fouler and Marco feared that she may very well take out her frustrations on the nightkin.

Carefully checking the lone remaining terminal, they were relieved to find that the computer was not booby trapped and moreover, had the information they were looking for. Downloading the file to their suit's computer, they made their way back to the nightkin leader.

"Because that's the kind of day this is." Marco muttered, as he struggled against the awesome strength of a very angry Davison. Either he was angry that the 'stealth boys' weren't here or he was a little bit more than slightly pissed at the number of his brother's they'd had to kill to get back to him. Either way, the reason paled in significance to the fact that the angry super mutant had swatted Iara away like a fly before bearing down on Marco and pinning him to a wall with his meaty fist jammed into the open visor.

The stink of the nightkin's fingers as they crushed his face against the back of his helmet was deeply uncomfortable. Davison used his not inconsiderable bulk to pin Marco's arms to his sides while his other fist hammered on top of his open helmet.

Thud Thud Thud, came the fist, thunder quaking Marco to his boots at the percussive force battering his head and neck. Davison growled, spittle flying from his fat lips as he struck harder and harder to break through the tough metal skin the human wore.

Iara shook away the colors dancing in her vision and extended her bayonet. With a roar worthy of a super mutant, she leapt into action, her gauss rifle held like a spear to drive into the nightkin's back. Her surprise was complete when a meaty backhand knocked her away again, the bayonet driven to the muzzle in his back and the weapon bobbing up and down as he moved.

With a roar of anger, he pulled the offending weapon from his back and smashed it against the wall repeatedly, the gauss rifle bent and broken before he tossed it away.

His moment of distraction cost him, as Marco cannoned his armored fist up under his dewlap, the nightkin's head snapping up and back under the tremendous force. Ramirez took advantage of the sudden freedom to follow up his uppercut with a quick snap to the super mutant's face, his nose crunching under the blow and blood spraying across his face.

He was off-balance, his arms cart wheeling as he stumbled backwards into the desk. Iara grabbed him from behind, her arm coming across his neck and locking tight. She pulled with all her might and bent the nightkin backwards over her, the armor protesting against the massive weight.

Davison heaved and grunted, his throat closed and his eyes now blood shot and beyond anger. He actually lifted Vasquez up off the floor, the several hundred pounds of armored marine lifted off the floor, her feet dangling behind the blue creature. He shook like a dog and Vasquez tossed around like a rag doll, her feet kicking in mid-air.

Marco pulled his sidearm and jammed the weapon into bloody ruin of his face and emptied the magazine into his skull, the heavy bone disintegrating under the fusillade. Iara yelped as the nerveless body of the nightkin fell back onto her and knocked her to the deck. She struggled to push the dead weight off as the creature's bowels released and hosed with its foul smelling offal.

Marco heaved the dead body off of her but stood back when the smell hit him. Iara could only glare as she slipped and slid her way back to a standing position, the brown liquid dripping from her armor in clumps.

She slumped over in obvious exhaustion, "After this, the first thing is, I'm getting laid." She declared, looking pointedly at him.

"After this, the first thing you should do is shower." Marco remarked.

"Nothing says can't do both at once."

Marco smiled despite the mess and nodded enthusiastically in agreement.

"That Jason Bright better fucking appreciate this. I don't know if I can handle another damn 'errand'."

"I sincerely hope so." Marco replied, after all, what else could the ghoul need from them?


	27. Chapter 26: How Little We Know

**Chapter 26: How Little We Know**

" _Who knows why an April breeze never remains_

 _Why stars in the trees hide when it rains_

 _Love comes along, casting a spell_

 _Will it sing you a song_

 _Will it say a farewell_

 _Who can tell…"_

~How Little We Know, performed by Lauren Bacall - 1944

* * *

' _All I can tell you is to find Cachino. He's the lowest level lieutenant you're going to be able to talk to. Some of the girls say he's been involved in some shady business the Family wouldn't really like. Ask him about it.'_

Joanna's parting words repeated in his mind, the courier steadying his nerves in spite of the distraction Cass was proving to be as they strolled up to the main entrance to Gomorrah.

The Omertas guard at the door eyed them warily, their travel stained clothing doing little to convince the taciturn sentry of their value as customers. The courier subtly shook one of the many pouches full of caps, the dull tinkling sound cutting through the Omertas' suspicion though it did not make the man any friendlier. He divested them of their obvious weapons, informing them that they would be returned once they left.

He and Cass shared a look and had to suppress the urge to be overtly smug about the small arsenal of holdout weapons they carried. He nodded towards the receptionist and the two made their way over to the tired looking woman.

She smiled at their approach, the practiced demeanor making it seem as if she truly was happy to greet them, "Hello and welcome to Gomorrah. What can I help you with?"

Paul gifted the receptionist with his most charming smile, "I'm sure you have all the good dirt on what goes on around here."

"I sure do, but loose lips sink ships." She replied, a hint of her world-weariness slipping through.

"Don't worry about me, I can keep your secrets." He murmured quietly, gently taking one of her hands and gazing at her with earnest empathy.

"Alright, you look pretty trustworthy." She breathed, his 'je ne sais quoi' having an obvious effect on her.

He spoke to her softly, her eyes caught in his gaze like a prey animal trapped under a predator's claws. As they spoke, her resistance faded until Cass was sure that Maxson could convince the woman to do just about anything, a realization that spiked jealousy white hot within her.

"I'm calling in for an outstanding balance for some information. Tell me what the Omertas are up to."

"I knew someone woulc call in that mark soon. What do you want to know?" She sighed, defeat clear in her tone.

"Tell me about Cachino." He urged, stroking her hand.

"Some of the girls say he's been involved in some shady business the Family wouldn't really like. Ask him about it." She whispered conspiratorially, occasionally glancing about to make sure they weren't overheard.

"Thank you, truly." He smiled, raising her hands to his lips and kissing them softly. He winced slightly at Cass clearing her throat noisily and turned back to his partner, taking her hand in his before she could protest and pulling her along deeper into Gomorrah.

Her anger dissipated as they mingled in the Brimstone, sipping drinks and making small talk with the other patrons. He held her hand the entire time, occasionally giving it an affectionate squeeze or leaning over to kiss her gently on the cheek or temple. She couldn't help but blush a little each time, her breath catching in her throat every time his lips brushed against her skin. The whiskey helped, as she raised her second glass to her lips and swirled the smoky liquor around in her mouth.

Paul was about to order another round for several of the people seated near them when a balding man in a pale suit approached them.

"I hear you been asking questions about me, dickweed. What the fuck do you want?"

"I hear you've been doing some business on the side." Paul replied, nonchalant as he kicked his feet up and smirked at the Omertas Lieutenant.

"Business? What the fuck do you mean business? You looking to get yourself burned?" Anger clouded his features as he continued in a low growl, "Now you start talking real clear, and I mean fucking crystal clear, because I'm about to lose my patience."

"Joanna? That name ring a bell? The Omertas won't take kindly to hearing about your relationship with her."

"Joanna? That bitch spreading lies about me? I've got a lesson to teach her about loose lips."

He stormed off, heading back towards the courtyard, evidently set on teaching the lesson immediately. Which meant that he at least was unaware that Joanna and several of her girlfriends had escaped.

After he had gone, the courier stood up and whispered at Cass, "He'll be out of our hair for a bit looking for Joanna, we should check his room for some dirt while he's distracted."

"Good plan, can I take this with me?" she said coyly, swirling the amber liquid around her lowball glass.

He answered with a smile and took her hand to help her up. After another brief session with the receptionist to find out which room belonged to Cachino, they went over to the elevators, looking for all the world as if they belonged and headed up.

Thankfully devoid of witnesses, the pair crept over to the room the receptionist indicated and tested the door. Locked. Pulling out a bobby pin and a small screwdriver, the courier went to work. Cass huffed irritably as he tossed aside the second broken bobby pin, looking up at her apologetically as he bent to his task again. He grunted in triumph as the lock clicked and admitted them into Cachino's suite.

"Nice." Cass remarked at the spacious two story suite. They divided up with him searching the bottom floor and Cass searching the top. After a few fruitless moments, Cass called down to him holding a journal in her hands. Running up to join her eagerly, the duo pored over the journal and very quickly realized just how much trouble Cachino was in. The ledger described every off the books deal he brokered as well as every sexual encounter he had with the Gomorrah prostitutes, Joanna included.

"We got him by the balls!" Cass declared.

"Good work finding this. This is just the leverage we need." Paul smiled.

They made their way back to the main level, ignoring the Omertas thug who eyed them suspiciously and muttered, "I hear you been making waves Courier."

They found a harried looking Cachino back in the bar, sitting alone and stewing, ostensibly over his failure to find Joanna.

"You again? What the fuck do you want?" Cachino snapped, clearly in no mood for bullshit."

"Do you like to read? I do. Nothing like relaxing after a long day with a good book."

"The fuck…" he began before Paul cut him off.

"Take this ledger for example… it is absolutely riveting."

Cachino's eyes widened with fear at the journal the courier brandished, "Where the fuck did you get that? Okay, listen buddy… That's some dangerous shit you got there."

He continued, "That book could get me killed, if the wrong people see it. Let's talk, what do you want? What can I do for you?" A hint of desperation edged into his speech, his voice cracking nervously.

"I want us to be friends!" The courier exclaimed. "Friend's help each other out."

"Okay, you got me by the balls. Here's a couple hundred caps, maybe that'll buy your friendship."

"That's a good start, friend. But what I'm really after is information."

Cass noted that the courier did not shy away from taking the offered money. She had to smile at that, for all his goody goody ways, he was pragmatic.

"I have some information about the Family's business that you might find interesting."

He paused, as if considering his next words with care, "Between you and I we can break up what they're planning, maybe save some lives… Mine included of course."

The courier's answering smile didn't reach his eyes as he tossed the journal onto the table in front of the worried lieutenant. Cachino snatched it up almost before it hit the wood and beckoned to the seat opposite him as he tucked the damning evidence into his coat pocket.

He leaned and spoke in a hushed whisper, "The bosses, Big Sal and Nero, have been working for a while on this. They're arming themselves like an army, using this new guy, Troike."

He glanced around before continuing, "They also brought in a specialist named Clanden. At least that's what they introduced him as."

"What kind of 'specialist'?"

"I got no fucking idea. They let him have the run of the place though. He seems like a nice guy, but he makes me nervous. He's a little arrogant, but he's too nice. Too open, I've never seen him fucking or gambling. Everyone has a vice, but this guy seems like the Pope."

"Ok, tell me about Troike."

"He's a skittish little fucker. Spends half the day pumping his body full of chems and the other half pumping hookers with his willy."

Cass snorted but quickly collected herself.

Cachino eyed her distastefully, "He has some kind of connections, so he's able to smuggle huge shipments of weapons into the Strip. The bosses got him by the short hairs. We covered up a hooker he killed while flying on some psycho, so he gets his guns in exchange for not ratting."

"An unknown specialists and shipments of guns… Do you know anything about what they're planning?" The courier asked, though he and Mr. House already knew that they had thrown in with Caesar.

"No, just that it involves guns and muscle. Also that it's big. Very big. Only Nero and Big Sal know everything, and they ain't telling."

"Alright. That's all for now, though I may have more questions later."

"Okay. You can find me here or in my suite. I'll let the muscle know you're a friend of mine; that should let you get around a little easier."

Maxson got up to leave, trailed by Cass when he paused and turned back to Cachino, "Where can I find this Troike fella?"

They followed the directions Cachino gave them, a den of sorts where chems were often taken in view of a lively floor show. They found the nervous Troike easily, the jittery man standing out among the other torpid customers.

As their shadows fell over the man, he started to babble, "Who are you? I didn't do anything, leave me alone."

"What are you doing here?" The courier asked, all courtesy gone as he towered over the man.

"I don't see how that's your business. I'm just a guest here, having a little fun."

The courier knelt next to the man and before Cass could blink, shove his fingers into his gut and curled them up under his ribcage, grasping the lowest rib and tugged on it while clamping his free hand on the man's mouth.

A muffled scream erupted from Troike's mouth as he writhed against the courier's grasp. Tears sprang from his eyes from the agony and the courier had to wait several moments for the man to listen to what he had to say.

"Cachino tells me you have something to do with gun shipments."

"Wha? What? Is he trying to get me killed?"

"I'm going to break up whatever the bosses have planned. You can Cachino are being drafted to help me."

He wheezed and shook his head over-emphatically, "Fuck that! The bosses have my number, and I'm a company man while they've got the goods on me."

"You mean that prostitute you murdered?" The courier hissed.

"Oh man, I don't even like to think about it. All that goddamn blood. It was just in the hotel like any other night."

He drew a relieved breath as the courier let go of his ribs, "I took some chems with the girl I was with, but I never black out. I did this time though. Next thing I know I woke up and she was lying next to me stabbed dead. There was a knife next to the bed and I was covered in her blood."

"What kind of chems were you doing?"

"That night?"

"No, last Thursday… of course that night you fucking retard!"

The man blanched at the explosive anger, "Mostly Buffout, I like to cut it with a little bit of Jet, and wash it down with some whiskey. That was my standard Saturday night…"

"That wouldn't be enough to make you unconscious." The courier considered thoughtfully.

"What? Yeah, you're right. I wonder what was up with that."

"Something smells off about this whole story." Cass remarked, Paul silently agreed as he asked Troike about the knife.

"I keep a little switchblade tucked away with me. You never know when you might find some trouble."

"How'd the Family find out?" Cass asked.

"When I saw the body, I started screaming, a few seconds some of their soldiers were in there cleaning up the room."

"A few seconds? That was fast…" Cass muttered suspiciously.

Troike continued, "They offered to keep silent about what happened if I agreed to help them get their hands on large quantities of guns, at deep discounts."

Paul thought it over carefully for a moment, Troike looking up at him with fear.

"You were set up. I'm sure of it. This story doesn't add up. Whatever plans the bosses had… you are merely a pawn for your contacts. I think we can use this to get you out of your contract."

Troike's face screwed up incredulously, "You'd do that? For me? I'm not sure what can be done, but you'd be doing me a solid if you would. I've been talking to Big Sal mostly."

It didn't take the pair long to find Big Sal, though the name must have been ironic because the man was definitely average, physically. Cass's gaze dropped to his trousers, wondering for a moment if the moniker was in reference to something else…

She jerked her head back up as Paul cleared his throat, but grinned when she saw him smiling back at her in amusement.

Unlike their 'friend' Cachino, Big Sal was courteous and coolly friendly, readily agreeing to let Troike out of his contract with very little urging needed from the Courier. All told, it seemed a little shady. Still, after hearing the news, Troike was more than willing to help Cass and Paul out with the guns the Omertas had stashed with some Thermite, which according to Troike, 'burned hotter than the devil's asshole.'

A few minutes, a couple stealth boys and the prodigious application of the thermite powder later, the storeroom was filled with glowing slag, the smoking remnants of the Omertas ill-gotten arsenal.

"Oh, excuse me!" The man exclaimed after bumping into Cassidy as they were making their way to find Cachino. Both the courier and Sharon hid their surprise well at bumping into the very specialist that their reluctant friend had mentioned earlier.

"Pardon us!" Paul answered in kind, "Clanden isn't it? Cachino mentioned you to us."

"Cachino? Yeah I've heard the name. Not sure why he'd mention me. Is he helping with room service or something?"

"Oh no, nothing like that. Sorry to keep you."

Clanden shrugged dismissively and went on his way, Cass and Paul waiting until he was out of sight.

"I imagine that's his suite he was coming out of. Wanna take a peek?" Cass asked.

The courier gave her a look that said it all and checked the hallway before letting themselves into his room. Once inside, they found a poorly hidden safe behind a bureau and after a great deal of cursing by the courier and about half a dozen broken bobby pins later, Cass eagerly edged in next to the courier to see what lay inside.

A healthy pile of caps and some holotapes greeted them, the courier actually rubbed his hands gleefully as he emptied the safe and handed the caps to Cass as he inspected the holotapes. He sat on the edge of the bed as he inserted one of the tapes into his pip-boy and gave it a listen. Both he and Cass were quickly green with nausea at the visceral sounds of violent rape issuing from the tape, Clanden clearly murdering hapless women as he indulged his twisted pleasures.

Cass turned away from the pip-boy as the holotape clicked off, her face even paler than usual. She gasped as she saw the hard edges of the courier's face and the quiet fury brimming in his eyes. She whirled around at the door to the suite opening and a very surprised Clanden frozen in the doorway. His eyes narrowed at the pair and he opened his mouth to speak.

She had never seen the courier move that fast, one moment he was sitting on the bed and in the next he was slamming Clanden against the wall. It was as if Paul stopped time itself and inserted himself in the frame that put him where he wanted to be.

"Is this yours?" he growled, waving the snuff tape under Clanden's nose.

"Well, looks like I'm going to have to kill you now." Clanden answered nonchalantly, despite the courier pinning him against the wall. He must have bet on the courier being the type of man to fight fair. His eyes popped open wide in shock and pain as the courier buried a blade to the hilt under his chin. Clanden's mouth hinged open and closed, the glint of metal from the blade in his mouth flashing like a strobe light. His feet twitched as the courier held him up off the ground before dropping him into a heap on the floor. The courier left the room without a word, dropping the snuff tapes on his corpse before he stalked off. Cass paused to spit on the man's face before hurrying to join her paramour.

She walked next to him and wordlessly took his arm in hers. He tensed for a moment but relaxed slightly at her comforting and non-judgemental demeanor. Many of the other companions he ran with would not have accepted his actions back there, except maybe Boone, so he was relieved that Cass accepted it so readily.

A few minutes later and he was guzzling down drinks next to a dumbfounded Cachino. Cass explained that they had destroyed the weapons.

"Whoa, you managed to pull that off? Solid work. That ought to gum up the bosses' plans."

Looking over at the courier, Sharon continued, "What's the next step in breaking up the bosses' plans?"

"Now we cut off the head of the serpent. Big Sal and Nero have to die."

"You have an idea?" Cass asked, almost off-handedly, her attention split between the conniving Omertas lieutenant and the increasingly drunk courier.

"They're a little bit upset about what's been done to muck up their plans. They tasked me to find out who's responsible."

He paused to knock back a shot, "There isn't going to be another chance to get both of them together in the same room. I'll slip you two a gun and we can take them out."

"You mean like this one?" Paul slurred, slapping his .45 onto the table.

"Jesus, put that away!" Cachino hissed angrily, "I'm not going to even ask how you got that in here. Just hurry and get ready, I'll meet you up at the room."

He stood up hurriedly and strode with purpose from the bar. The courier watching him with a sullen expression. He turned back to Cass and surprised her with his sudden sobriety as he spoke with a furtive whisper.

"I don't trust him. Watch yourself in there."

"I always do, sugar. I always do."

"By the way," Paul said, as if suddenly remembering something, "I don't plan on Cachino surviving this coup."

"He's a shit like the rest of them." Cass replied, shrugging.

A few minutes later, the pair of them were reclining on the couch as Big Sal grilled them.

"Any chance you'd tell me what the plan was? As a last request?" The courier meekly asked, his posture seemingly wilting under the boss's glare.

"Are you shitting me?! You went through all that trouble and you didn't even know what the plan was?!"

"Well, Nero didn't tell me much about the plan when he hired me to take you out."

Sharon smiled. The courier may as well have tossed a stick of dynamite into the room for the explosion of shouts and denials that erupted from his statement. They leapt over the sofa and ducked down to avoid the spray of bullets as the two Omertas bosses cut each other down amidst screams and insults.

"Holy fuck! I did NOT see that happening!" Cachino exclaimed, his eyes wide with awe at the courier, "Remind me to never bet against that silver tongue of yours!"

"No worries there, asshole." Cass replied sweetly, as she drew her 9mm and fired a single round into his crotch.

He fell screaming, clutching at the bloody ruin of his manhood and rolling along the floor in agony. Cass knelt down next to him and grinned at the tears running down his face.

"That was for Joanna and all the other girls you've brutalized you son of a bitch." Cass spat.

She left him writhing on the floor as the courier surveyed the carnage. He smiled up at her and activated his pip-boy, calling in the cavalry to secure the Gomorrah and pacify the Omertas thugs who likely would not take the deaths of their leadership well.

They strolled out of the Gomorrah under securitron escort, reminding everyone that the courier lived and operated under the aegis of Mr. House. No one questioned him or the fiery red head at his side as they walked calmly out. Though it took time, the Omertas got their house back in order and pledged to behave under Mr. House's watchful eye.

House was pleased with the courier enough to give him some time off before the next phase of his plan, completely oblivious to the fact that Maxson's twelve labors were at an end. Paul was going to challenge the mighty Zeus himself atop his spire-like Mt. Olympus.

* * *

"I really wish the dude would ditch the 'ghoul' accent." Iara muttered to Marco as they were trailed by a suddenly chatty Chris Haversam, who despite having been shown quite definitively that he was not a ghoul, continued to talk with their distinctive rasp.

"I guess it all worked out in the end, they get to their promised land and I get celebrated as a martyr. The chance to study your technology is not to be understated either. I am thrilled to be honest."

Chris had said something to that effect at least six times since they left REPCON. They had gone back to Novac to let Mannie know that the job was done. But at Vasquez's insistence, they shouted up at him from beneath his perch in Dinky's mouth as opposed to meeting him face to face. They marched quickly away before any reply from Mannie could reach them, trailed by a thoroughly confused Haversam.

The news of their return with a bona fide scientist seems to have travelled fast, as both Dominic and Luca with their coterie of SCV trainees were awaiting them. They passed Chris off to the engineers, who immediately inundated the man with a veritable firestorm of questions. They marched with purpose back to the barracks, waving at the other patrols they passed.

Iara stomped up the ramp first, veering to the right to the arming chamber and with the ease of a veteran, eased into the arming cradle and let the machinery remove the sections of her armor for cleaning and repair. She slumped once the last piece was free, stepping gingerly from the boots before they sank into the deck and cleared the pad for the next marine. Her fatigues were soaked with sweat despite the environmental controls of the hardskins and her muscles trembled with obvious exhaustion.

Marco stepped into place as Vasquez shuffled off to the showers, a brief glimpse and tight smile his only farewell. A few moments later, divested of his own armor, he followed her path into the communal shower area to find a pair of men hastily gathering up their clothes and rushing naked and wet from the room. He harrumphed in bemusement and tentatively walked into the shower, the steam hitting him full force.

He made out Iara leaning against the far wall with her hands planted against the wall to either side of the shower head, the cascading water sloughing sweat and blood from her naked body. He paused to admire the hard curves of her body and the way the water coursed along her bronzed skin. She seemed to sense him and turned to face him, her small pert breasts bouncing slightly as she sighed.

"Are you just going to stand there or are you going to fuck me?"

Marco didn't need to be told twice, reaching her in a few quick strides and crushing her against his broad chest as his mouth descended hungrily onto hers. They kissed for a few moments before she broke away and turned around, pressing her toned backside firmly against his crotch.

She had never been one for subtely or romance, he mused, as she guided him into her and began to buck against him despite the exhaustion that colored her behavior just a few minutes ago.

It didn't take long for either of them, as just minutes later found them toweling off and collapsing nude into their bunks. The others made no comment, even the still wet men they had displaced in the showers. The need to sleep began to fog his senses and he felt himself drifting off when Vasquez's voice cut through the gray swirl of impending unconsciousness.

"On the off chance we don't make it back, we're going to make it official."

"Make what official?" Marco asked, his question almost unintelligible past the mighty yawn which cracked his jaw.

"You and me. Only if we don't get back. If we end up having to settle here, I want you to be the father of my kids."

"Only if we don't get back? What if we do?"

"Then we have more time to mess around and tear shit up, cabrón!"

"What is this about?" Despite wanting sleep, Marco was a little shocked to hear his long-time friend and comrade speaking this way and curiosity waylaid his desire for rest.

"I don't know, just shut up and go to sleep."

Marco sighed and rolled over, promising to ask again later when she wasn't so edgy… if that ever actually happened.

 _Elsewhere_

Meanwhile, in the engineering bay, a cluster of engineers are eagerly waiting for a fresh perspective on their vespene shortage problem. They clustered around Chris Haversam as he studied the chemical formula of vespene, Sharon on hand to answer his questions about the compound.

He stroked his chin for a time and began in his raspy voice, "I wonder if something could be synthesized by using our isotope-239 igniting agent to catalyze radiated natural gas deposits. Too bad there isn't anyway of testing that."

Sharon grinned and began speaking to the air, "Adjutant, download the formula for atomic fuel. Run a deterministic model to determine outcomes of using it to catalyze a chemical reaction using natural gas with varying degrees of radiation." She turned to Chris, "Mr. Haversam, if you could kindly provide the formula for this 'atomic fuel'?"

"Who the heck are you talking to?" he asked, looking around past the engineers crowded around them.

The feminine voice which answered from seemingly every direction at once made him jump almost right out of his seat.

"Adjutant Online. Awaiting specified formula."

"Um, should I just say it?! Will it understand me?"

"You can simply write it down if it's easier, Dr. Haversam."

"Dr. Haversam... I've never been called that before... I like it." He grumbled. He quickly wrote it down and held it up, holding the paper up in various directions as if unsure what to do with it.

"Formula received. Running model. Please standby."

He set the paper down, as if he somehow expected something more and was somewhat disappointed. He perked up quickly when Sharon passed him a steaming mug of rich coffee, the smell wafting in the gentle swirls of steam and making him tingle in anticipation as he took the proffered cup. His facial expression was thanks enough, as the sublime caffeine coursed warmly down his throat.

"Doctor Johnson. I have run ten thousand permutations of the model you directed." The adjutant announced.

"Thank you, please summarize."

"Model has shown a 64% rate of successfully synthesizing vespene from the process. 24% of simulations shows no measureable success and 12% of simulations show catastrophic failure."

Smiles broke out all around as the engineers clapped Chris on the back, congratulating him on the breakthrough. He was overwhelmed and nearly teared up at the recognition from peers who actually understood what he was talking about, something he wasn't used to from his origin in Vault 34 or his time with the Bright Brotherhood. He wished Jason and his followers well on their journey because for him, he finally felt at home.

* * *

A/N: I wanted to make some notes and answer a couple of questions that have been posed over the course of this story.

Terran weaponry – As seen from in game cinematics from Starcraft and Starcraft 2, shells are seen being expelled from the side of the weapons the marine's fire. A specific cinematic shown in Starcraft 2 during the Char arc, clearly showing that the ammunition used in the gauss weaponry to be chemically propelled, just like modern firearms. The best way to explain it is thus, the primer is ignited by a firing pin which detonates the chemicals (whether gunpowder or some future analog) which accelerates the 8mm metal slug down the barrel. There are a series of coils arranged along the barrel which accelerates the round to hypersonic velocities. Hypersonic is given to mean speeds at LEAST Mach 5, or 5 times the speed of sound.

Now as to what Terran weapons can do in Fallout New Vegas, let's look at the closest round we have in comparison with the Terran 8mm. Well, duh, the 9mm! A standard 9mm round will confer approximately 467 joules of kinetic energy using the formula 1/2MV2. A 9mm round masses in at around 0.0075 Kg and has a speed of around 353 m/sec. If we assume that the Terran round is of similar weight (let's round down to make it more fair, say 0.007 Kg) and apply that to our formula then for V use the minimum value for hypersonic velocity or 1715 m/sec, we can discover how much more energy, at a minimum, a single shot from a gauss rifle would confer. Doing the math we come up with 10,294 joules. That's 22 times the kinetic energy! A 9mm handgun firing standard rounds does 16 damage per shot. That means, in game terms, that a single shot from a gauss rifle does 352 damage. Consider that the gauss rifle typically fires a 3 round burst and that a deathclaw in game as around 500 health… you can probably tell that if anything, I am nerfing the hell out of the Terrans to make it somewhat less of a steamroll over the wasteland.

And to address another specific question with regard to a certain direction the story can go, I had planned to visit the infamous Sierra Madre with our protagonists fairly soon. If you've played the DLC, you can imagine how much differently it can go with Terran technology backing up the courier!


	28. Chapter 27: The Flood

**Chapter 27: The Flood**

" _There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures."_

~William Shakespeare

* * *

Weyland had to fly IFR (instrument flight rules), the dense cloud cover and the lack of moonlight severely limiting her visibility. The Terran navigation software running off of the locally engineered electronics didn't make her job any easier, the almost crippling latency from her instruments making their flight much more harrowing than it needed to be. Even replacing the vacuum tubes with TTL circuits couldn't adequately handle the Terran's computational requirements.

Griff kept glancing nervously over the pilot's shoulder every time the craft was buffeted by unexpected turbulence, thankful that the flight would be a short one. He lurched forward as the craft slowed its acceleration suddenly, Weyland cursing as she fought the controls to keep from overshooting the target area.

They both hoped that whatever unidentified aircraft were here experienced the same visibility issues they did, or they could very soon be coming under fire. The craft settled in its hover, and they both held their breath as the seconds ticked by.

Griff chuckled as they both released their held breaths at the same time, the almond shaped eyes of the Lieutenant twinkling in amusement. He gave her a thumbs up and moved back to assemble the team for embarkation.

The wind from the turbines buffeted the team as they rappelled off the ramp from the hovering banshee, each marine taking up position to cover all avenues of approach and scanning the area with their gauss rifles up and ready. Aside from Griff and Jacky, the others were rookies, with the medic Hannigan serving in his first deployment with the CMC-405 armor and the three marines fairly recent inductees.

Still, the Captain nodded in satisfaction at their disciplined deployment, the 3 marines forming a wide wedge as they moved forward behind Summers with Hannigan taking up the center rear. He scanned the area but found no trace of any aircraft aside from their bird, spotlights coming on and aiding the marines with visibility.

Curiously, there were a trio of massive cages that were bent and broken, looking as though they had been dropped from a significant height before bursting open. Summers crouched and brought her rifle up, her right fist raised to halt their advance.

"What is it Jacky?" Griff asked.

"I sense something. Rage, hate and pain, at least 3."

"Whe…" Griff began, but his question was cut off by a trio of ground shattering roars that slammed into him with physical force.

Pandemonium erupted as creatures borne of man's primordial fears burst from the foliage around the clearing and charged into the force, scattering the heavily armored marines as if they were rag dolls.

Griff looked up into the slavering jaws of one such creature, its purplish carapace gleaming in the spotlights and two massive horns curling up from its skull. Its rows of dagger like teeth drew his attention as it roared again, its massively clawed arms extending out from its sides in an aggressive and intimidating gesture.

He fired his flak pistol at near point blank range, his dismay palpable as the rounds seemed to ping off the creature's armored hide. He dove but didn't move fast enough as a burning pain erupted in his side and his sidelong dive turned into a shallow flight over several yards of rough gravel. He slid and rolled painfully to a halt, rock dust clinging to him as blood dribbled from his mouth as he struggled to his feet.

Pain lanced through him as hot blood gushed from the trio of ghastly wounds in his side, his rib bones shining white through the tears in his skin. He fell back, the white hot anguish overwhelming his senses. His boys tried to form a firing line, firing bursts at the creatures as they attempted to regroup, their shots doing little more than to annoy the beasts.

They strongly resembled deathclaws, though those creatures he had faced with Paul Maxson at the quarry near Sloan were much easier to fell than these monstrosities. Their armor was much thicker and as they roared and turned, he noted several spiracle like horns rising from their back.

A marine screamed as he was gored by one of the creatures, the horn impaling him in the abdomen. The man struggled as the creature lifted and threw him with a toss of its head, the hapless soldier cartwheeling through the air to crash in a heap of twisted armor.

Jacky lunged between the swiping claws of two of the creatures, her C-10 canister rifle held across her chest as she attempted to regain some measure of balance. The mutated deathclaws seemed wholly unwilling to grant them any surcease, their aggressive brutality keeping the force from fighting back effectively.

One of the creatures, the one who had gored a marine, turned to fix her with a baleful glare before a series of whumps opened craters on its chest, each successive blast forcing it back. The main cannons on the hovering Banshee smoked as Weyland turned the aircraft to keep the creature in its firing arc.

The gunner manning the minigun howled in frustration as he stood impotent on the ramp of the banshee, unable to fire into the chaos without the very real possibility of hitting his comrades. Making up his mind, he grabbed his gauss rifle from the rack and leapt into the fray, aiming for the back of one of the beasts.

The deathclaw roared in surprise as several hundred pounds of armored marine fell onto him, the man grasping tightly to one its spiracles and leaned forward to jam the muzzle of his rifle into the creature's face. A burst of 8mm spikes impaled the creature's cheek with one lucky round popping one of its eyes as it bored into its skull. The deathclaw went mad with pain, thrashing about to throw the offending man from its back so it could tear it asunder with its claws.

The marine locked the servos of his arm to maintain his grasp and continued to fire into the deathclaw as best as he could, the wild bucking of the creature throwing off his aim. Several spikes embedded themselves in its mouth and snout before his weapon clicked on a dry magazine. Cursing, he extended his bayonet and lifted the weapon high, driving it down with all the force he could muster in between the creature's horns.

The skull was thick and strong, though it proved no match for several inches of nano-forged steel driven into it by an adrenaline fueled, power suited marine. It fell over with a groan, the marine helpless as the creature rolled over on top of him. His visor groaned then shattered beneath the weight and his armor blared warnings as the plates slowly buckled under the weight.

Jacky managed to get some distance between herself and the pursuing deathclaw, albeit only by passing between the two remaining marines which proved a distraction for the beast. She skidded to a halt and loaded armor piercing rounds into her C-10, aiming up into the throat of the deathclaw as it proceeded to claw through the marine's armor like a hot knife through butter. She blocked out the two men's fear and pain edging into her brain as she lined up her shot and fired.

The round smashed its way through its neck, tearing a baseball-sized hole through the creature's flesh. It gurgled, dark blood spurting from the wound and raining over the falling marines in an orgy of crimson fluid. She let out the breath she had been holding but got no chance to draw another as the last deathclaw ran over her and sent her tumbling in a bruised heap beneath its clawed feet. It turned around, its bloodshot eyes narrowed in rage as it moved in to finish her off.

The wind suddenly kicked up and the deathclaw actually mewled in confusion just a millisecond before the armored prow of the banshee rammed into it and lifted it bodily into the air. It held on and glared at the pilot who responded with an over-emphatic middle finger before flipping the banshee over, the force throwing the deathclaw far off into the night. Its receding howl sounded like a bleating Brahmin, the sound cut off with a crackle of cracking wood. Taking no chances, Weyland glided the aircraft over and sent a storm of autocannon rounds turning the deathclaw's landing spot into a shallow series of craters decorated with the creature's spattered viscera.

Hannigan held the Commander down, the man thrashing in agony as he sprayed his many wounds with growth stimulants and pain killers. It wasn't going well, and the former NCR medic grimaced in apology when he punched the Captain square in the jaw, the lighter CMC-405 armor nonetheless enhancing his strength enough to knock the man out cold. He hurredly finished his ministrations before checking on the other marines.

The first he came upon looked up into the sky with a vacant gaze, his torso shredded beyond recognition. Hannigan swallowed back the bile rising in his throat and closed his eyes for a moment, recognizing one of his fellow inmates from the NCRCF. He moved to the other man, who also lay still, but whose wounds were much less grievous.

He was able to treat him quickly, the man astoundingly regaining his feet and nodding in thanks. The last marine was trapped under tons of deathclaw and the two of them struggled to heft the weight off their comrade. With a final heave, they rolled the creature off and were greeted by the shuddering gasps of the man as he struggled to gulp in air as fast as he could.

They were joined by Jacky and the marine who had been tossed out of the clearing, both wincing as they hobbled over to them. Jacky let her rifle droop as she bent over to catch her breath. The gored marine gasping against the punctured armor pressing painfully against his chest. Hannigan and the other survivor grasped both sides of the mangled breastplate and managed to lever it open, relieving the pressure on his lungs.

Weyland landed nearby after verifying that the area was clear of additional contacts, the medic carrying the unconscious Captain and two marines carrying their comrade onto the ramp with Jacky and the last marine taking up the rear.

The group was in shock at how closely they had come to dying, the stark reminder that even their vaunted technology could not defend against all threats lying dead eyed and gaunt at their boots. The trip back to base was a somber affair, the question of who may have engineered deathclaws to be even more deadly and then left them where the Terrans were sure to investigate on all of their minds.

* * *

The photo she held in trembling fingers showed a slightly younger version of herself, long blonde hair framing her delicate face as she held a newborn boy with a mop of unruly black hair. A man stood proudly behind them, his arms cradling both mother and child in his protective embrace. He had a classically handsome face, with a chiseled jawline and somewhat unruly black hair. The grainy photo was tear stained and oft-folded, she held it delicately as if afraid to tear one of the few reminders of happier days. The comm beeped, interrupting her malaise as one of the command center crew called her by name.

"This is Bourgeois, go ahead."

"There is a medical emergency in hangar bay 2, Dr. Johnson has asked for you personally." Here the woman paused, "it's the Commander."

Sophia stifled a gasp, the moment drawing out uncomfortably until the woman on the other end of the comm coughed pointedly.

"I'm on my way." Sophia breathed out, barely audible over the hum of the command center.

"Acknowledged."

* * *

His wounds weren't closing despite the medical nanites being poured into the ghastly wounds. She could actually see the lacerated lung tissue heaving behind the exposed ribcage as the Captain hoarsely drew in breath after breath. He fought hard to not scream, trying to smile comfortingly to his distraught wife.

"What ze hell happened?!" Sophia demanded, her French accent often coming out when stressed. This situation certainly qualified.

The scans sent shivers down her spine, the anomalous readings reminding Sophia almost of zerg infestation. It was different enough to waylay her fears that it WAS a zerg virus, but the resemblance was frightening.

"We were attacked by three creatures that resembled deathclaws enough for me to guess that they are a further mutated version of the same species. In fact, given that they were dropped off by the unknown contacts before we arrived, I would hazard that they were artificially engineered offshoots." Weyland explained, the pilot chewing on her lip in worry.

"The two other wounded marines were treated on site and seem to be recovering well. Their wounds weren't as deep though." Hannigan piped in.

Sharon was pale as she gripped her husband's arm, stroking his sweat soaked hair while cooing gibberish at him as he writhed on the bed. Nothing said could move her, so the medics merely moved around the beleaguered woman as they worked.

"FEV." Scribe Taggart breathed, the tablet displaying the scans dropping to his side in despair.

"What?!" Sophia snapped.

"Forced Evolutionary Virus. The Pre-War government experimented with it to create biological weapons for their cold war against communist China. Deathclaws were one result of their experiments, but they had since spread beyond the NCR where they originally hailed to spread throughout the wasteland."

"Someone has to have furthered those experiments, those deathclaws are like nothing I've ever heard of." Hannigan added.

"Merde!" Sophia cursed, as she wracked her brain for a solution. Whatever it was, it was attacking Captain Johnson's systems and keeping his blood from clotting correctly and interfered with his cell's healing mechanisms. The growth stimulators could not overcome whatever the agent was doing to him, this FEV. If she couldn't find a way to stop it soon, his wounds would kill him.

"Hannigan, use the terminal and synthesize a vial of GX-232 retrovirus. 30 CC's."

The medic looked at her quizzically for a moment then turned to do as she asked. Sharon perked up at last, her intense concentration on her husband broken by Sophia's request.

"Dr. Hanson's research?" She whispered.

"Oui. It iz similar enough to the zerg virus they use to infest Terrans that it may be effective here. All ve can do iz pray."

Though there was no true cure for zerg infestation, Dr. Ariel Hanson developed a series of retroviruses which would enable the patient's DNA to assert itself over any invading DNA, coupled with the standard growth accelerators, it became a race between the patient's own DNA and the zerg viruses attempted to rewrite it.

She administered the retrovirus and used almost medieval medical methods to seal the wounds in his side, flushing the area with powerful antibiotic and antiviral sprays before suturing the ripped flesh closed with steel clips. She covered it with a sterile dressing and bandaged it carefully. Hannigan began an IV of plasma to replace what the commander had lost and another of painkillers and sedatives to help him rest. Sophia brought a chair over for Sharon to sit in, which she accepted gratefully before settling in another chair herself, keeping an eye on the scans.

The others filed out one by one, each offering comforting words to Sharon which were steadfastly ignored.

* * *

"Lieutenant Weyland."

The woman stopped short and looked up at the two engineers walking briskly towards her. They were trailed by a balding man in a lab coat that she didn't recognize.

"Engineer Li, Engineer Giovanni." She greeted, "What can I do for you."

"We just heard about the commander. How is he?" Dominic said, cutting Luca off to that man's irritation.

"It's too soon to tell. Was there something else?" Weyland clearly seemed to be in a hurry to go somewhere, anywhere.

"You have the command, ma'am. We have a mission request that needs to be cleared by you."

"No. No more missions for the time being."

"But…" Luca interjected.

"I said NO! And I mean it!" Weyland hadn't considered that as the second highest ranking person, she would be left in command if the Captain was incapacitated. It was a responsibility that terrified her, she was a fighter jockey, not a Commander.

Dominic laid a hand on Luca's shoulder to settle the volatile man down, "Commander…"

"Don't call me that."

"Lieutenant," Dominic corrected, "This is Dr. Haversam. He has helped us solve the vespene problem."

This stopped Weyland short, "What?"

"It just happens to be his area of expertise. He was able to model a process using local materials to create a vespene analog. All we need is a source of natural gas and a catalyzer. We have the location of both. Luca and I have drawn up the schematics for a modified refinery, and once all the pieces are put in place, we will have a steady supply of vespene. You know what this means."

"Of course I know what it means!" Weyland snapped, far more harshly than she intended. She massaged the bridge of her nose for a moment before drawing a deep breath and continuing.

"I know." She said more gently, "What exactly do you need?"

"Aircraft and a team to clear out the caverns of local fauna at Fire Root Cavern near Cottonwood crater."

Weyland thought back to her study of the area's geography.

"That is dangerously close to a Legion encampment." She noted.

"It is, though the mountains themselves and the ambient radiation at the crater would deter Legion patrols."

"We'd need to station men to defend the site regardless." Weyland stated flatly, "and the catalyzer?"

"Scanner sweeps have shown a quantity of isotope-239 near an area called Clark Field, south east of here. We just need a quick smash and grab to get it. The site is highly irradiated so we'd need to be in and out quickly."

"Ok, so how long would it take once the refinery is up to get enough vespene to get us on track?"

"That's the bad." Luca admitted, "We'd only be able to synthesize a trickle of vespene, 1 standard unit per hour. It would take just over a day to have enough to build the reactor add-on for the barracks so we can start producing CMC-660 and 5-4 Armored infantry Suits."

She leaned against the bulkhead, her forehead resting on the cool metal and bringing some slight relief from the near constant headaches she had since they arrived here.

She spoke as if to the wall, though the engineers forgave her eccentricity when it became apparent they were receiving approval for their mission plans.

"We'll take this one step at a time. No half-measures. Our last recon cost us a marine and maybe more if the Commander doesn't pull through. We'll get the catalyzer first once Summers has had a chance to rest. She'll be the lead on the ground. Coordinate with Knight Lorenzo to get some of his boys to help secure the site. We go in ready to level the place if necessary."

Luca and Dominic nodded in affirmation, Lt. Weyland clearly not in the mood for anything approaching dissent.

* * *

Two days later, the entire force of 3 banshees, 2 drop ships and 1 medivac took off from the hangars in Hidden Valley and headed south to Clark Field. The aircraft stationed at Nellis were to be on hot standby in case needed. All the aircraft were loaded with an entire platoon of T-72 armored brotherhood Knights and Paladins, the majority of them newly inducted from the Vault 18 personnel and those Boomers who relished ground combat more than flying.

They spread out to the north of Clark Field and dispatched their ground forces. Weyland gritting her teeth as she watched from the CIC in the Command Center, her nerves on edge with sending others into the field. She understood now why Captain Johnson hit the field so often, it was nerve wracking to sit back while others took the risks.

The display showed that their deployment was a little sloppy, the veteran paladins curtly ordering the knights to form up properly. Summers led a small force of marines to the area pinpointed by the adjutant while covered by the BoS troopers. She had them pause before entering the area, the adjutant warning of several bio-signs in the area.

Not wanting to take any chances, Weyland ordered the BoS contingent to take their Rad-X and sweep the site.

Moving in a line, the wall of polished power armor presented a daunting sight, giving the golden geckos who made Clark Field their home pause. The knights and paladins needed no order to engage, no command to open fire, they simply raised their weapons and filled the air with precision laser fire, dozens of the mutated beasts falling where they stood.

The few remaining ran forward, hissing in misplaced bravery as they sought to close with the Brotherhood's advance. Laser fire cut them to pieces before they ever got close, the twitching body parts crushed underfoot as the knights and paladins swept the field from one side to the other.

Summers and her team followed in their wake, the marines taking the occasional potshot with their longer ranged weaponry.

In less than half an hour, the entire force was heading back north, the canister of atomic fuel safely ensconced in a shielded container aboard one of the dropships.

With the success of the operation, Weyland and Paladin Hardin approved the deployment of a second team to Fire Root Cavern.

This time, the more heavily armored marines led the way while the Brotherhood forces took up position outside. It was feared that firing laser weaponry inside would detonate the natural gas, relegating the Brotherhood to a guard role. Still, a squad saw action against several super mutants on the opposite side of the mountain, within Cottonwood crater itself. The virgin knights acquitted themselves well, led by the veteran Paladin Hardin himself, they released over a dozen super mutants and their pet centaurs from their torment.

Inside the cavern, the marines were having a grand time engaging in melee against the geckos that made their home within even though this particular breed possessed the ability to breathe fire, and one of them was twice the size of its fellows. Summers led the way, her lithe frame dancing in between the mutated creatures, slashing open scaly flesh with her knives as her marines pounded the wounded geckos with powerful blows. Several of them had become enamored of the super sledges the brotherhood had stockpiled in their armory and used them to devastating effect.

One marine blasted aside a gecko and called out to his partner, who turned and bashed the creature down on his return swing, the hapless creature broken as it tumbled through the air. They made a sport of it, bashing the poor creatures between them like a game of badminton. Once the cavern was declared clear, the SCVs moved in and began carefully boring pipelines into the subterranean natural gas deposit and constructing the automated refinery along the mountainside.

Weyland recalled the bulk of the team after a relief force was sent to take up guard positions. Automated turrets and firing ports built into the refinery itself provided the men stationed there defensive positions. A missile turret was constructed atop the refinery to provide air cover and for the marines and engineers there to take advantage of its advanced sensors.

Weyland looked up from the CIC display when the lift doors opened, revealing a haggard but smiling Griff walking on crutches and supported by Sharon. He struggled into the command center, the effort clearly draining him as he collapsed onto the nearest chair, sweat beading on his brow. He looked up and around in surprise as the command center crew standing at attention, all of them doing their best to hide their relieved smiles.

"Please, as you were. And thank you."

Weyland eyed him warily, noting how pale he looked. "Are you supposed to be out and about sir?"

"At ease, Lieutenant, "Griff laughed, "Bourgeois thought I could use a little exercise. Besides, I hear you have everything well in hand. Congratulations are in order."

Weyland fought the blush heating up her cheeks and the smile that twitched at her lips. She was still angry at the Commander, after all.

"I am happy to relinquish command as soon as you are ready sir."

"That might be awhile. I'm getting used to being able to rest and relax with my wife."

Her words caught in her throat, the commander hurriedly retracting himself at her anguished expression, "I was only kidding! You'll have the con for one more night, I promise."

Her relief was palpable, her body visibly relaxing at the news that the heavy mantle of leadership would soon be back where it belonged.

* * *

"Look son."

The young teenager dutifully examined the ground where his dad pointed, trying to remember his lessons and apply them on his first real hunt.

He saw the depressions in the soft earth, his eyes tracing the contours and noting their depth and number.

"I think there were two of them here, dad." He looked around some more, "They stopped here to nibble on these razorgrain stalks."

"Very good, Scott." His dad beamed, clapping his son on the shoulder. They had followed the tracks of a pair of radstags for about an hour after leaving the settlement, and for the most part, Scott had led them true. David was immensely proud of him, already excited to tell his wife what a great hunter Scott was shaping up to be.

They continued for another hour, slowly following the fresh signs, Scott excitedly pointing out the still steaming spoor of one of the beasts. The two men readied their hunting rifles, heirloom weapons that were the envy of the settlement, as they continued.

Another hour passed and they both sensed that they were getting closer, crouching down and trying to make as little noise as possible. They had to range slightly south to stay downwind and crept along the underbrush as much as possible.

"Wha?" David paused in his survey to regard his son, Scott examining his hand intently.

There was a light fleshy purple liquid dripping from his hand, his son indicating the tree trunk he had leaned against to brace himself.

The long dead tree showed signs of some kind of infestation, more of the purplish mass growing along the trunk in a pulsating mass. David had never seen anything like it. Wiping his hand off hurriedly, Scott peered over the brush and gasped.

"Dad… look."

Looking down into the small valley, David saw what had taken his son aback. The bowl-like depression was covered with the same growth that infected the tree, and more pointedly, the body of the recently deceased radstag lay on its side in the middle of it. The carpet of fleshy material seemed to have started to grow up and over the corpse, tendrils winding their way over the body even as they watched, astonished.

The radstag has been dismembered, parts of its body lying in a small circle with arcs of its blood having sprayed in impressive large jets across the valley. The purplish mass seemed to flex as it 'absorbed' the creature's body, the sickly sweet scent of decaying meat nearly gagging the father and son as they watched in grotesque fascination.

His hunter's instincts screaming, David felt as though something was watching them, and tearing his eyes from the odd spectacle, urged his son back.

Their hearts hammered in their chests just below the edge of panic, fear lending them strength as they increased their speed back to the settlement, all thoughts of the hunt purged from their minds.

Their exodus was marked by a pair of glowing yellow eyes, the zergling edging forward from the underbrush mere yards from where the hunter's crouched. It sniffed the ground and sampled some of the creep growing on the tree trunk, the nutritient rich creep revitalizing the scout. It tensed its hind legs, the wings of the raptor strain zergling vibrating in excitement as it prepared to run down the Terrans. It paused mid-leap, the overriding directive from the nearest overlord turning the scout back. It loped back the way it came and joined its brothers, a band of dozens of zerglings jogging back to the hatchery rising on the horizon.

* * *

A/N: And that's the last chapter for a little while, my next update will be for the story I adopted from Fulminanz, The Salem settlement. Although lately, I seem to be brimming with good ideas and have been having pretty good luck at writing them out coherently. I hope you enjoy this chapter. Please R & R!


	29. Chapter 28: Forlorn Hope

**Chapter 28: Forlorn Hope**

"It is not enough that we do our best; sometimes we must do what is required."

~ Winston Churchill

* * *

 _"Welcome back to the Mr. New Vegas Show, the show with, in my opinion - which I respect - the best-looking audience around. Somebody prove me wrong? It's about time to get you some news. Citizens of Outer Vegas are flocking to the Strip in droves amid a wave of terror caused by a band of raiders known as the Fiends. Those who can afford passports say that the added security is well worth the price of admission. More news for you. Gomorrah is under new management after the departure of Omerta bosses Nero and Big Sal, the casino's new manager spoke to reporters; "Before he left, Nero told me him, Big Sal and Cachino were tight see, said that they were gonna go camping down at lake Mead, said he always wanted to sleep with the lakelurks."_

* * *

The SCV's were particularly industrious today, with only Dominic sitting idle perched atop his rig smoking while scanning the skies for the drop ship. He smiled once he made out the silhouette against the horizon, the aircraft quickly closing the distance and coming to a hover over the cleared area marked for its LZ.

Dominic flicked away his smoke and vaulted into his cockpit, sealing himself within the SCV's cold embrace with practiced grace. He toggled on his radio in time to hear one of the Boomers, no, Lancers receiving landing clearance from the command center.

The Lancer-initiate landed the drop ship with barely a wobble, the enthusiasm with which most of the former Boomers had towards being able to fly matched by their natural talent for it. Unfortunately for them, they had far more pilots or Lancers than they had airframes. Dominic kicked his SCV into gear and approached the lowering ramp, grinning at the green barrels within.

The refinery was working as advertised, providing a slow but steady trickle of vespene. This was their second shipment of the vital resource, bringing up their total to 92 units. They had already built the tech reactor add-on for the barracks, the additional power and resources enabling the facility to build the firebat, marauder and reaper units. A handful of their new inductees qualified for the new roles, especially the reformist convicts that surrendered after they took the NCRCF.

' _Speak of the devil.'_ He thought, as a brutish bright orange shape stomped out from the barracks. The figure rolled its shoulders and tested the weight of the perdition flame throwers mounted on each arm. Though they weren't facing zerg here, the massive flame loving behemoths should be an effective psychological tool against the enemies they had encountered in the wasteland, very few had an effective defense against being hosed in flame! The Commander had allocated the resources necessary for them to field juggernaut plating mods for the CMC-660, so these guys were essentially walking tanks.

Giving the Firebat a wide berth, Dominic trundled up the ramp of the drop ship and took hold of the first canister of vespene, making for the area marked off for their vehicle factory. With vespene still a rare commodity, the first vehicles to be produced would be vulture bikes, the fast hover scouts providing their patrols with much needed speed and firepower without draining their supply of vespene further. Though the majority of the Terrans didn't care much for vultures, their distaste a byproduct of Rory Swann's successful propaganda campaign against them, the BOS troops were understandably elated at the prospect of a fast attack hover bike.

He set his load down just in time for his partner, the strangely cheerful Luca, to set down the markers for the vehicle factory, the man actually waving at him from inside his own cockpit. Dominic waved back, supposing that he'd be in a much better mood too were he in Luca's shoes. Since they became allies with the Brotherhood, the terse man had been spending more and more time in the Brotherhood archives with a certain Brotherhood scribe. Though tentative at first, time together had eroded their demure reluctance and given way to a full blown relationship. His smile at his partner's love life faded as he remembered his own circumstance, his own partner as far as away as it was possible to get. He forestalled the pending tears and bent to his task, repeating the mantra, 'the commander will get us home, the commander will get us home.'

* * *

The door slid open with a hiss of hydraulics, the noise stirring the captain from his restless sleep. Bourgeois had pulled rank on him, medically speaking, and relieved him of command for at least 5 days. Now, on the morning of the 4th, he was certain that he was going mad. He blinked at the darkened silhouette in the doorway, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the corridor.

"Sorry." The soft feminine voice murmured, moving into the room and allowing the door to hiss shut.

"Hi baby." He grunted, trying to sit up to properly greet his wife.

She laid her hands on his chest, gently pushing him back down ignoring the scowl on his face as he acquiesced.

She pulled the covers back and inspected the sutured flesh on his side, nodding at how well the flesh was mending now that the FEV was beaten back by Hanson's retrovirus.

Covering him back up with the sheets, she sat on the edge of the bed next to him and idly stroked his arm.

"Some of the locals have asked about the retrovirus we used on you."

"Oh?" Griff's interest was piqued instantly.

"They say that there are creatures out there, most notably those called 'super mutants' that are largely the result of purposeful FEV exposure."

"Would the retrovirus help?"

He groaned internally as soon as the question left his mouth, especially as she adjusted her glasses and adopted what he had come to call, 'lecturer face.'

"On the outside, no. The retrovirus helps the native organism assert its own DNA against the foreign material introduced via FEV or other sources. What data we have on the super mutants indicate that their mutation is effectively complete. Their DNA has already been fully rewritten to the new template. There is no 'native DNA' for the retrovirus to emulate. It would literally do nothing but reinforce the new paradigm against a secondary infection."

He took a breath to respond and hopefully cut her off before she could go on.

Too late.

"Now, if we had samples of the original DNA, we could replicate it and perhaps inundate the host organism with massive doses of original DNA programmed retrovirus. Essentially, we would be attempting to do what the FEV had already done, completely rewrite the DNA to the new paradigm and as cell division took place, the host would eventually return to a semblance of their original form. Something like that could very well kill the subject, with only a marginal chance for it to work."

Griff saw his chance when she took a breath.

"Well, that's too bad…"

Which was promptly lost when she continued, completely ignoring him, "The only reason it worked on you was that there was so little FEV in your system compared to your native DNA. Despite how aggressive and effective FEV is, even in minute amounts, we were able to use the retrovirus to tip the balance in your favor. I'm afraid that…"

He cut her off in the only way he could, he gripped her lab coat in his hands and pulled her upper body down onto him, locking her lips onto his in a fierce kiss.

In that moment, he was reminded that they had not been intimate in a long time, the reminder made all the more poignant with the reaction his body was having at her close proximity, her scent filling his nostrils and making him feel lightheaded.

She squeaked in surprise, but melted into his embrace with equal ardor, her hands suddenly everywhere as they fought to get herself under the sheets with him.

He pulled the lab coat off of her less than gently, breaking the kiss only long enough to pull her shirt up and off over her head. Pulling her back down with a hand on her neck, the other snaked down her back to unclasp her bra strap. She moaned against his mouth as she felt his body's reaction to her against her stomach, one of her hands squeezing between them to caress him there.

An hour later, a happily exhausted Commander was being helped to the lift in the middle of the command center, the blushing scientist helping her husband as he swung his legs with the crutches. They rode the lift in satisfied silence, the commander' brain happily filing away the effective means in stalling his wife's many long winded explanations for the future.

The floor dinged open, the command center crew coming to attention as he and Sharon walked in.

* * *

"Are you supposed to be here sir?" Lieutenant Weyland remarked, smirking at the question she had come to ask every day since he was put on bed rest.

"Just checking in, Lt. Stand down." Griff laughed, his hands up in surrender while balancing on the crutches, "Anything to report?"

"Engineers have begun work on the vehicle factory, sir. Estimates put it at being ready to produce at 1800 hrs."

"Excellent, as we discussed before, let's get 8 vultures queued up first, enough for 2 good scouting parties. Talk to Elder McNamara, our mixed ops are pretty successful, let's keep that up. Anything else?"

"Not at the moment, we're just doing scanner sweeps of the surrounding area."

They both looked over at that station, a Brotherhood scribe and one of their new trainees studiously glued to their screen as the sweeps revealed more data.

"Huh." The trainee, Olivia remarked.

"What is it, Ensign?" Both Weyland and Johnson asked simultaneously.

She paused for a moment, her gaze shifting between the two as if wondering who to look at as she answered. She resolved that by looking back at her screen, "This sweep has picked up a radio signal. Short, but definitely manmade."

The lieutenant glanced over at the commander, the man drawing his fingers across his lips in a 'zipping' motion to indicate that he would be shutting up now. "Let's hear it." She ordered.

The scribe fiddled with some controls under the Ensign's watchful eye, the bridge of the command center filling with a radio crackle when a voice came out over the speakers.

' _Dog, back into your cage.'_

They waited for a moment, but it appeared that those five words was it. No one noticed the scribe's face go white.

He stood up hurriedly, almost too hurriedly as he swayed from the sudden movement.

"Whoah there, you ok?" The ensign asked, her hand steadying him.

"I know that voice." He croaked, taking a deep breath and looking around at the astonished faces of the rest of the bridge crew, "That's Elder Elijah."

* * *

General Oliver sat at the head of a table so covered with reports that one couldn't see the stained wood beneath. Seated at the conference table with him were the bulk of the commanders of the forces deployed in the Mojave, with the notable exception of Chief Hanlon. The day had slogged on with remarkable torpidity, dry reports of readiness making his eyes blur with exhaustion and his head ache. With the promised reinforcements from the President himself, the General had to get all the most current status of every man and woman and every supply, down to the last service rifle and stimpack.

The voice of his adjutant droned on in the background, try as he might, he just couldn't forge his way beyond the headache that tormented him to listen to the man for another minute. His head pounded in rhythm to some distant typewriter as a junior officer typed out more reports and orders. It took a moment for him to realize that the room had gone silent, with half of the officers looking at him expectantly and the other half regarding the harried looking radio operator at the door.

"What is it, son?" The general demanded, sitting up and straightening his shirt.

"Sir, we've received a fragmented report from Camp Forlorn Hope. They report a growing number of Legion forces preparing to cross the river at their location." The man rushed out, his breath nearly failing him at the end.

"Why didn't this report come in from Station Delta? That's the whole point of them being there!" He roared, standing up and knocking his chair to the floor. He fought to control his anger, "Peter, get on the horn and get all available forces in that area to converge on Forlorn Hope."

"Sir, our forces are spread thin. We don't have any other assets nearby. We pulled them back to the dam."

General Oliver groaned at the realization, sitting down just as an aide hurriedly set the chair right for him. He nodded at the enlisted man in thanks then regarded the collected officer darkly.

"Whoever among you has an ounce of balls, get your troops together and hoof it to Forlorn Hope, now."

* * *

The blood glistened black along his blade, the faint starlight reflecting off the thick liquid. It looked like tar, the man thought, as he used the pants of the trooper at his feet to wipe the blade clean.

He looked up through the slit cut into his hood, his dark eyes noting with satisfaction the rest of his men finishing their dark business. The Legate may look down on the Frumentarii, but nothing beat the effectiveness of their stealth tactics when surprise was of the essence.

He looked up at the NCR flag fluttering with a melancholy air on the bent flagpole at the center of Station Delta.

He cocked his head to the side at the weak sound of a barely muffled wet cough. He scanned the area and saw him, a profligate hiding beneath the watch tower, his hands clutching the wound in his chest.

He glided like silk to the man's side, noting that the ghoul had actually killed his attacker and was attempting to hide beneath his brother's body. He nodded in momentary admiration, the tactic one that he might have tried himself had his position with the NCR dog been reversed. Still, the man was a freak and a profligate, the sneer on his face invisible to the man as the blackened blade ripped its way through his throat.

The ghoul gargled as he died noisily, grasping at his ruined throat as strength fled his body. The Frumentarii waited for a moment, making sure despite his confidence in his skills. He nodded to his brother who had joined him, tapping his arm in a silent signal. The man tapped back in response and moved off to signal the force waiting across the river.

* * *

Skypio flexed his arms, limbering them up before the coming battle as he waited in the dark for the black clad Frumentarii to silence the monitoring station. In moments, the NCR at Forlorn Hope will notice them crossing the river and he needed to be sure that the Ranger station was in no position to offer aid or to signal for reinforcements.

A long whistle broke the still night and he smiled. Death was coming for the NCR this night, and he was its herald.

* * *

"The integration is going well, the recent addition is especially useful according to the reports I'm getting from Head Scribe Taggart." McNamara was at ease in his office, the Terrans Ramirez and Vasquez flanking Veronica as they each made individual reports on behalf of their commander.

Veronica spoke up, "The scribes have completed refitting another of the empty storage bays into a classroom. The Terrans are helping us craft enough squire uniforms for the children, we should be all set by the end of the week."

McNamara nodded, pleased at the news. Though initially reticent to accept the Vault 18 residents en masse, especially given the logistical concerns such a surge represented, both his Brotherhood and the Terrans had stepped up to the plate and had met the challenge admirably. There were hundreds of initiates for all three branches and hundreds more squires eager to learn. It was a blessing that the Vault had a primary and secondary education system, each resident came to them with an impressive background of knowledge, all they lacked was a focus for their energy.

He opened his mouth to speak when one of his guards peaked in through the door.

"Elder, Scribe Davis is here to speak to you. He says it's very urgent." The paladin stated.

"Very well, let him in." He turned his attention to the Terrans, "Could you excuse me for a moment?"

Marco nodded at Vasquez and the two of them head out, the aforementioned scribe squeezing in between them. Veronica made to follow but was halted by Davis, the thin scribe grabbing her by the arm to turn her about to face the Elder.

Her shock was forestalled by the words that began spilling out of the scribe's mouth, as she looked at the Elder, she saw his initial surprise replaced with a cold rage so intense it sent shivers down her spine.

"Call the Terrans back in please." McNamara growled through gritted teeth.

Marco and Iara had only gone a few steps when the Paladin called after them, asking them to return to the Elder's office.

They shared a confused look before striding back in and pausing at the sheer rage rolling off of the elder and the quiet stoicism of the thin scribe who still held Veronica in his grasp.

"Scribe Davis, please repeat what you just told me."

"A few minutes ago, the Terrans were conducting a surveillance sweep with their scanners near the abandoned bunker. We picked up a brief RF transmission from that area. They played the transmission and I recognized the speaker as Elder Elijah."

"The war criminal Elijah." Elder McNamara corrected with a growl.

"Can you pinpoint the source of the transmission?" The Elder asked, his tone softening only slightly.

Marco consulted with the adjutant over his comms for a moment before nodding in the affirmative to the Elder's question.

"Scribe Davis, please call an emergency meeting of the council. The Brotherhood has a request to make of her allies."

The Terran's suits bleated a brief tune, which preluded the Adjutant's announcement, "Warning. Large number of human bio-signs are crossing the Colorado River at Camp Forlorn Hope."

Veronica froze as she mentally checked her knowledge of the area with the Adjutant's report, "It's the Legion, they're attacking!"

* * *

"Another day, another battle, another dead trooper. When is this shit going to end?"

The NCR trooper was beyond tired. He was despondent. Another of his friends died last night and their rations were cut yet again. Not only did he grieve for his friend, he couldn't even do it with a full stomach or adequate rack time. He searched his pockets and found the stub of a cigarette he had been saving and rolled it around in his hands, considering if he should smoke it now or save it. He shrugged as he raised it to his lips, about to light it when horns began blaring in the distance.

Careful not to drop his last smoke, he rushed to the edge of camp and almost pissed himself in dismay at black mass rising up out of the river.

He cursed as two men jostled him, his words stuck in his throat as he realized it was Major Polatli and Tech Sergeant Reyes. They stood with him, mouths agape as the force arraying against them came into the paltry light of the camp's searchlights.

"It's an entire cohort." Reyes whispered, noting the banners representing each of the centuries composing the army that marched up to them.

"There." Major Polatli pointed, his finger trembling, "That's Skypio's unit. Skypio is here."

Their hearts fell at the hundreds of Legion soldiers marching to the camp, hope fleeing into the night opposite the advance. Finding some measure of courage in the pits of their desperation, the Major turned to the trooper.

"Rouse the camp, call every man to the line. We have a fight on our hands."

* * *

She let her legs dangle off the edge of the dropship as it banked along the dirt tracks south of New Vegas. Despite the seriousness of their mission, she couldn't help but feel trapped by the past, replaying the deathclaw battle at the former Vault 18 over and over in her mind.

The Commander had been hurt in that fight, grievously so and she felt deeply responsible despite all logic pointing to some unknown adversary making a play. Vault 18 was her former home, anything related to that nightmare lodged deep in her psyche and made her feel somehow responsible for everything that happened there. Ashur made no comment, simply staring at her in his way as if to say, _'It's nothing, move past it.'_

She wanted to, she truly did. But the Commander had accepted her, trusted her, and had made her feel a part of something bigger than herself. He was as different from Ashur as one could get, open where the assassin was laconic. Warm and inviting where the spectre was a glacier, cold and forbidding. She owed so much to her mentor, she knew that, but he was no Captain Johnson.

A tap on her shoulder shook her from her self-recriminations just as the dropship settled into a hover over their rendezvous point. Here was another memory butting in, jostling for attention in the fragmented psychosis of the young woman's mind. Her feet touched down in dust blackened by ash, the realization stunning her for a moment as Ashur touched down behind her.

The crackle of static from a toggled comm bead turned her towards him, his mask up and his face betraying curiosity at her reaction.

"This is where you found me." Jacky murmured.

Ashur looked around and nodded in recognition, shielding his eyes momentarily as the dropship dusted off and returned to base.

Jacky crouched and picked up a handful of dust and ash, letting it sift through her fingers to catch on the forlorn wind. From where she was kneeling, she knew that this was the spot where the lieutenant had died… to her blade. She had ended his misery with a swift death, the feel of his hot blood splashing on her hands making her check to make sure her hands were clean of blood, so real it felt. All that remained were some scraps of cloth and broken shards of bones, wildlife having cleansed the area and almost completely effacing the NCR patrol's gravesite.

A dark stain on a builder marked the only reminder of the kindly old NCO, his kind and tired eyes reassuring her despite the fervent excitement his lieutenant tried to impress him with. He deserved a better end than this.

She stood up and waved at the approaching courier and his companion, the foul mouthed Rose of Sharon Cassidy. She felt the emotions rolling off of them and smiled a little to herself, they had finally found each other. Her own feelings for the courier were mixture of fear and gratitude. He had spared her life and set her feet on its present course in a confrontation that felt like a lifetime ago. She should be grateful, but a healthy dose of fear still spiked within her whenever she was close to him. Jacky didn't know how or why, but she felt pensive around the man. Like death rode upon his shoulders and touched everywhere the courier tread.

He smiled at them, completely unaware of the significance of the locale to his rescue.

"Hey gang, thanks for the backup." He took both of their hands in a sincere handshake.

"What's the mission Mr. Maxson?" Ashur asked, respectfully not pulling the answer from Paul's mind.

"Tying up some loose ends." He answered, "My… sources tell me that the Fiends are a chaotic element and need to be dealt with before the war gets going in earnest. Have a feelin that they'll back the Legion and make a play for Camp McCarran. I'm no fan of the NCR, "He paused at a sharp look from Cass, "but I'd much rather see them make it back home to their families than get torn apart by these animals."

Cass look somewhat mollified by that and took a swig from her everpresent flask.

The courier crouched and motioned for the others to gather. He pulled a crackling sheaf of paper from his back pocket and laid them out on the ground. Each one appeared to be an announcement of a bounty, a rough sketch of four unsavory characters plastered on them with the words 'wanted dead or alive' beneath each picture. The strikethrough on the 'or alive' looked like it had been done with a bit of venom, as the paper was torn somewhat in that area on all four posters.

Paul motioned at the first, a wild looking woman.

"This one is Violet. She's crazy, a cannibal and hangs out with a large number of dogs, which she breeds."

Cass looked up at that, "She what now?"

"No, no, she doesn't breed with them… I think. She breeds the dogs for the Fiends. Anyway, she hangs out at a trailer fort, figured Ashur here could take care of her."

He handed the paper to Ashur and picked up the next one.

"This one is Cook-Cook, he…"

"He's mine." Jacky interrupted.

Sensing that there was something to that, the courier let it go and simply handed her the sheet.

"This one is Driver Nephi, tough son of a bitch, survived several attempts on his life. Cass and I will handle him."

He handed the sheet to Cass who muttered at the ugly mug and took another good swig from her flask as if looking at the picture put a bad taste in her mouth.

"This last one, Motor Runner, hangs out in their den. Vault 3. I figured once we take out the lieutenants, we meet back up and take on the fiends at their hideout as a team."

Jacky stood up and charged her rifle, "Sounds good to me. Let's roll." She turned and broke into an easy jog, the ozone crackle of her cloak breaking the tense silence that followed her declaration.

"Well, I guess we're done strategizing…" Paul muttered, picking up the last wanted poster and shoving it into a pocket. "Good luck Ash…"

Ashur had already gone, not even a whisper of sound alerting either him or Cass to his departure.

"How the hell does he do that?"

Cass spat, "Who cares? Let's go kill us some shit heads."

She punctuated her remark by sliding the rack of her shotgun, a fresh shell sliding into place with a 'kachunk'.

"Alrighty then, its party time."


	30. Chapter 29: Hot Vengeance

**Chapter 29: Hot Vengeance**

"The Martyr cannot be dishonored. Every lash inflicted is a tongue of flame; every prison a more illustrious abode."

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

* * *

The thunder of hundreds of voices roaring as one crashed over the NCR troopers like a physical wave, some even stepping back in dismay at the onslaught.

The young trooper fell back and sat behind the scant protection the sandbag revetment offered, pulling a small dog eared bible from his coat pocket. His mother had given it to him when he was conscripted and sent east, urging him to read and take comfort from its words. He opened the leather bound book, its yellowed pages crackling in protest. The tiny black letters danced in his vision as tears came unbidden to his eyes, his haste to wipe them away only making it worse. He wondered what his mother would think of him now, huddling like a child and stinking of piss and fear. Thankfully, he didn't have to wonder long, as the bible fell from his nerveless fingers. He didn't even hear the retort of the rifle that took his life, and felt only the briefest flashes of pain before blessed darkness stole all fear or worry from his mind. He slumped where he sat, blood dribbling from the hole in his temple.

Major Polatli grimaced in dismay at the force arrayed against his men, and fought past the terror rising up in his chest to form his men into some semblance of a firing line. The sporadic rifle fire from the Legion forces punctuated their disadvantage, the majority of his troopers clutching only caravan shotguns and were woefully outranged by the Legion riflemen. It was a small blessing that so few of the enemy used rifles, or perhaps a curse, for a bullet would surely be a more graceful death than being hacked to death with machetes or transfixed with spears.

He saw him, the larger than life Skypio, striding forward to form the vanguard with his most brutal soldiers. He was even larger than the stories he had heard, and he could swear that the man sneered at him even as he donned his massive war helm. He lifted his sword and roared a challenge so bellicose and full throated that it overpowered the combined war chants of his cohort.

The man broke into a jog and the Major had to physically stop himself from stepping back. He glanced to the left and right, his troopers trembling where they stood or knelt along the battle line. He drew his 9mm and clicked off the safety, drawing a breath to give the necessary order to open fire before the Legion crashed into them and chaos reigned. The words wouldn't come forth, couldn't come forth, the strange pressure in his chest robbing him of elocution. He looked down and gaped at the haft of the spear protruding from his body, the wooden length wobbling as his body shivered in shock.

Major Polatli sat down with a heavy thud, the invasive wound oddly free of pain though he found it quite hard to breathe. Not able to force any words past his throat from the complete failure of his lungs to expel his breath, he merely lifted his weapon and fired, the weapon wobbling wildly as he struggled to keep the 9mm raised.

The other troopers, though visibly dismayed at their commanding officer's terrible wound, became galvanized at his continued defiance and began to pour fire into the advancing Legion forces. They continued to load and fire, calmly and without rancor as if their spirits had already resigned themselves to death.

The vanguard of the Legion were heavily armored, their charge led by the mighty Skypio himself. The brazen Tribune reached the opposing line first, the peppering shot from the NCR shotguns merely an irritant on his finely crafted plate.

Here he was in his element, the mighty warrior, brawling amidst the chaos of limbs as he lashed out with shield and sword. Blood misted in the air as he cleaved flesh from bone and sent limbs flying through the ranks. The air became hot and sticky despite the cool night, a palpable atmosphere of claustrophobic death pressing in on him with the same urgency as the desperate NCR troopers. He spotted the NCR commander, the man pale and wan with Skypio's spear still transfixing the kneeling officer. He smiled in spite of himself, honoring the man with a downward strike of his sword, ending his pitiful resistance and splitting him nearly in twain.

All along the line to deny, NCR troopers fired into the press of Legionnaires, their shotgun blasts only marginally effective against the heavily armored vanguard troopers. The troopers fell with alarming alacrity, the first rank chewed through and the second reeling from the press of legion might.

Throwing down the radio in disgust, Technical Sergeant Reyes brought the last line of troopers into the fray, her service rifle doing much more to penetrate the opposition's defenses than the bulk of her fellows. She expended a magazine in moments, half a dozen Legionairres sent howling to the dirt with rifle rounds drilling into their torsos. She was jostled and dropped her reload, a frustrated scream tearing itself free from her lungs.

The boss of a massive shield exploded in her view, her vision swimming with stars at the tremendous impact. She was momentarily confused that she now lay on her back, but training took over and withdrew her last magazine from her belt and slammed it home. Her rifle barked up at her assailant, the Legion soldier jerking backwards as round after round pierced his body. That man fell only to be replaced by another, who joined his comrade as Reyes nearly emptied her magazine into him.

Sharp pain erupted on her firing hand as a heavy boot knocked her rifle away and broke several fingers. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut against the tears that nearly sprayed from them as she groped for her sidearm. She nearly blacked out as a vice closed over her broken fingers and ground them painfully together. She felt herself being picked up by that one hand, her vision swimming and consciousness fading in and out as her brain tried to protect itself from the waves of agony. She could barely make out Skypio's sneering face and tried to kick out, her foot barely finding purchase on his decorated plate.

He tossed her with contemptuous ease into his cohort, "I take this one as my tribute. Disarm her and see her back to our camp."

The Legionairre caught her as she stumbled and saluted to his commander, ripping away her pistol belt and combat knife before shoving her down the hill away from Forlorn Hope.

The NCR resistance melted against Skypio's renewed enthusiasm, the man striding through them like a scythe through wheat.

Terrible Skypio! His wrath was white hot iron, his spirit a wild beast which reveled in the butchery.

Most of the Legion men weren't even bloodied by the time the battle ended, Skypio and his finest warriors exacting a terrible toll on the NCR before they could press into the melee. Pockets of resistance fell back in disorder, and were promptly surrounded and mobbed by the vastly superior numbers. Legion men stabbed with spears and smote with machetes, their own firearms forgotten amidst the tumult.

A few shotgun blasts contrasted with the wet hacking sounds of blade hewing meat. A few lucky troopers actually managing to strike a killing blow against one or two of their enemy before they fell before the slashing iron and stabbing spear points.

In minutes, the savagery waned and dissipated as the number of foes dwindled. Skypio stood among his officers as the last of the NCR troopers, a young man who had hobbled from the medical tent to grapple with the foe had his head shorn from his body. Skypio nodded in approval, the brave man deserved the honor of a quick and clean death. He grunted in distaste as he noted that there were more men huddled within the field clinic, their wounds less than those of the man who had defied death to fight to the last. These wretches would face crucifixion for their cowardice. He gave the necessary command before pulling the rest of his men back.

By the time scouts dispatched by Chief Hanlon arrived, Skypio had taken his force back across the river to his camp. Over a dozen men had been brutally crucified upon poles that the Legion brought with them for that express purpose. The cawing of crows competed with the moans of agony from the 'survivors', the macabre display turning even the veteran scout's stomachs sour.

Though bloodied and cradling her broken hand, TSgt Reyes glared up at the towering Skypio.

"You fought well, woman. Better than the rest of the men. Were you a man I would honor you with a clean death."

Reyes spat a gobbet of blood onto his massive boots, her weakness allowing her only that mark of defiance.

"And so spirited! I am very pleased that I was able to claim you as my spoil first! You should be relieved, you will not be a common slave to relieve the men their tensions nor bear their bastard children. You will take my seed and mine alone, to give me sons for the glory of the Legion."

She didn't hear any of that, her pain and exhaustion making her numb to all else but the throbbing in her hand and the blood drying on her face.

"No better time than the present to begin." Skypio laughed, the thrill of battle still singing in his blood and making his ardor all the more potent.

She barely responded as he tore away her uniform, her mind going nearly blank as if to protect her from the horror of the night. He thrust within her again and again, his hands still stained from the battle groping at her pale flesh and his mouth slurping hungrily at her breasts and neck..

His attentions ran long into the night ere his appetite was sated. By the end, she could no longer hold back the sobs as her whole body shuddered in time to his grunted thrusts. Satisfied but not spent, Skypio had left to commend his men while slaves attended to his prize. They cleaned her and dressed her, setting her onto his bed and ignored her when she screamed long and hard into the night.

* * *

He stared intently into the fire with a scowl though his rancor didn't quite reach his eyes. No, what truly plagued him was a sense of overwhelming mental fatigue. He wrung his hands as he replayed the argument he had had with Julie Farkas over and over like an itch he couldn't quite reach. Bill had tried to convince her to leave with him, to abandon Freeside and to take as many people as can be made to move anywhere that wasn't the Mojave.

He had done his duty, a tiny voice whispered in his head, though the feeble argument lacked all weight against the monolith of guilt that cast him in its shadow. His every argument and point had been either deflected or outright ignored by the recalcitrant Julie. Her optimism shone as a beacon against the darkness presented by his realistic assessment. A beacon she huddled within and stalwartly refused to abandon despite all evidence.

Calhoun knew that Vegas was about to erupt into violence and death as the NCR and the Legion battled one another. Who knew what House intended, but the aged doctor was not about to trust the absentee landlord to protect the people of Freeside. He didn't protect them before, when war didn't loom, why would he expend the effort now that the dark spectre of a greater conflict cast its shadow over the entire Mojave?

He saved those he could, came that tiny voice again, as he finally looked up at the camp. Dozens of people: Freesiders, fellow Followers, a few volunteer mercenaries… the detritus of society, pushed gently away from the monsoon in the vain hope of saving them from the coming devastation.

He poked the fire idly with a length of rebar, sparks whirling in the air like a swarm of fireflies. It took him several moments to notice the pair of booted feet lit by the fire's glow mere feet from him. He looked up into a shadowy face and fell back in shock and fear.

A burly man knelt down and held his hands toward the fire, shrugging off the furred mantle he bore on his shoulders. He took the horned helm from his shaggy head and regarded Bill Calhoun with glittering eyes.

"It's been awhile, Dr. Calhoun." The man muttered gruffly.

"Papa Khan." Calhoun breathed, his shock at seeing the leader of the Great Khans stealing his wits.

He looked around, seeing the entire camp ringed by what had to have been the entire tribe of Great Khans, his fellow Followers and the refugees he had brought shrinking back from their ominous presence. The few guards held their weapons warily, foreheads sprinkled with sweat despite the chill in the night air.

"Strange to see you out here instead of holed up in that Fort of yours." Papa remarked, settling in more comfortably. The other Khans took that as a signal and began to relax themselves, some of them moving about to set up their camp while others settling down around the fire.

"I could say the same of you." Bill said, eyeing the chieftain of the fierce tribe sideways.

"Let's just say that a certain someone managed to convince me that staying was not in my people's best interest. From the looks of things, you came to the same conclusion."

"The Legion grows bolder by the day. They've received a massive influx of reinforcements from Arizona. I've heard rumors that President Kimball is sending more troops here as well. The Mojave is a powder keg sitting in a bonfire. It'll blow any second." Bill replied, his tension easing slightly.

"I thought to align my people with the Legion. Thought maybe it'd bring us back from the brink and give my people a taste of justice as we smashed the NCR." Papa Khan explained.

"And now?" Bill pressed.

"And now, I've seen the light. Caesar never respected us. He would have taken my men for soldiers and my women as slaves. The ruin that started at Bitter Springs would have been complete under the Legion flag and our legacy…" He punctuated his point by picking up a handful of dust and letting it sift from his fist, the motes catching on the evening breeze and wafting away into the night.

"Still, why are you here?" Calhoun asked.

"Just told you."

"No, here specifically. Why this way?"

"Why are you coming this way?" Papa snapped, his temper beginning to fray.

"It's the clearest path from the madness I could think of. I thought we could swing north then head back out west."

"Going back home to the NCR, eh?" Papa couldn't quite disguise the disgust in his tone.

"What else is there for us?" Bill retorted hotly, quickly losing his patience.

Papa took a deep breath and leaned back to look up at the stars, "There is a place you could go. Could be a new start… for us both."

"And where would this magically fantasy land of yours be?"

Papa didn't answer for the longest time. For a moment, Bill thought that perhaps he didn't really have a destination and the conversation was effectively over.

"Do you know the Courier?" Papa asked, seemingly apropos of nothing.

"Courier Six? The one that was shot in the head? I've heard of him but never met him. Julie talked about him quite a bit, think she was in love with the man. Apparently he is some kind of folk hero to Freeside."

"I don't know about all that, but yes, that's him. He's done right by the Great Khans. Showed us the shit the Legion was shoveling over us. Gave us an out."

"An out?"

At Bill's question, Papa smiled and whistled a sharp tone towards the camp being set up by his people. A few moments passed when a young man came running up towards them.

Bill could swear he saw something like this man before, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Despite the chill, the tribal joining them wore very little, his body decorated with a multitude of brown or crimson markings. He wore an old baseball cap festooned with feathers and a faded "W" emblazoned on its front.

He grinned at the two, his very white teeth shining in contrast with his tan skin. Bill noticed a club of intricate design hung from a loop on at his side. It looked like the head of a horse with a pair of feather affixed to the handle. He also carried a worn but well maintained .45 auto pistol.

"Hoi big man." The young tribal greeted, his smile warm and genuine. Despite himself, he found he liked the man immediately.

"This is Follows Chalk. He's a friend of the Courier, and now, a friend to the Great Khans."

"You guys mighty tough. Good having you as friends. Plenty of room in Zion after Courier help us drive off the White Legs."

"I'm afraid none of that makes any sense to me." Bill admitted, spreading his hands helplessly.

The three men settled down and Follows Chalk and Papa Khan filled in Bill Calhoun with the history of Zion and the courier's involvement with their fight against the White Legs. Bill was surprised to hear that Joshua Graham was still alive and more than a little reticent at the idea of seeing him again. But the chance to settle in Zion! A natural reserve whose water was so pure you could drink it directly from the numerous rivers that still worked to carve their mark into the canyons, filled with him a hope he had not dared dream could come again in a single lifetime.

Others joined them around the fire as Follows Chalk, enjoying the attention, told the story of his adventures with the Courier with flair and relish.

It was almost as if the intervening years of that disappointing end to the Followers and the Great Khans relationship vanished overnight. He couldn't forget how the Khan betrayed the Follower's generosity by using the knowledge they gave to them freely to make chems for profit. But, it was in the Followers' nature to forgive and look for the best in people. The Great Khans, for all their brutal ways, were not like other raiders. They seemed earnest in their desire for a fresh new beginning in the land that Follows Chalk described to them. They were enthralled at the majesty he painted for them with the brushstrokes of imagination. Hope stirred in even the most hardened heart at the tales of the Sorrows and Dead Horses living and working together in peace.

The sun had barely kissed the sky on the new day as Follows Chalk led the Great Khans and the Followers of the Apocalypse to Zion. He looked back over the meandering line of smiling people and wondered if the courier, his friend, was doing well.

* * *

Maxson ducked under the fast swing of the golf club as Driver Nephi swore. Spittle flew from the fiend's mouth as he screamed obscenities at him, the foul smelling stuff making Paul regret letting the man get so close.

His eyes watered from the stench rolling off the man, his senses still trying to come to terms with how fast the guy was! He and Cass had caught them in the southeast Vegas ruins and picked off more than half of the crew before Nephi, running faster than anyone he had ever seen, knocked him senseless and sending his carbine spinning away.

He dodged and ducked, but as fast as the courier was, even he couldn't avoid the whirlwind of swings and jabs the fiend pressed him with. Stars exploded in his vision as the golf club caught him on the temple, the courier's desperate dodge only enough to keep the strike from killing him outright. He coughed and sputtered, realizing belatedly that he was face down in the dirt, rolling desperately to regain his feet.

He drew Chance's knife, the wicked edge glinting in the afternoon sun as a darkened shape bore down on him. He threw up his arm and nearly screamed at the sharp crack and blinding pain which rendered his entire left side numb. A flash of a grinning maniacal face resolved in his vision for a mere moment, the courier acting on instinct and throwing his head forward into the fiend's face. He felt the satisfying crunch of soft tissue crumping under the impact of his forehead.

He couldn't celebrate though, if anything, the blow had him reeling even more than he already was, the earth spun lazily beneath his feet and kept him off balance. He wobbled and stumbled to the left, the semi-controlled fall actually saving him from an overhead swing from Driver Nephi. He turned to see him stumble past, his over swing costing him his balance.

Looking for all the world like a drunk, Paul staggered towards the tripping fiend, his left arm flopping uselessly at his side while he clutched Chance's knife in his right. Summoning up what little strength remained, he buried the knife in the man's side, feeling the slight resistance as the razor sharp blade parted muscle and sinew.

Driver Nephi froze then spasmed under the immense pain that erupted from the wound like a bolt of lightning. He fell to the ground like a falling timber and was helpless under the onslaught of anguish coursing through his veins. His kidney! The bastard stabbed him in the kidney! No further thoughts ran through the former Mormon as an inky blotch of absolute darkness blotted out all other thought as it oozed through his consciousness.

Paul fired a few more rounds to be sure, the worn 10mm pistol bucking against Driver's Nephi's head. More out of an overblown sense of picque than anything else, the courier kicked off the man's ridiculous helmet and aimed a few good kicks to the side of his head for good measure. A wave of dizziness overcame him as he collapsed onto the stinking Fiend, a stench he tolerated for the moment as he fought to catch a breath that was frustratingly elusive.

"Laying down on the job again?" A certain redhead teased, her omnipresent shotgun hefted over her shoulder.

"Seems not that long ago that you appreciated my laying down work." He quipped, smiling up at her lasciviously despite the pain throbbing in his head.

"And I will again, but right now, we got work to do. Or did you forget about those fellows?"

He sighed as he looked past her legs at the remaining fiends running at them.

When he and Cass had first assaulted the group, they had divided their attention using one of Dr. Mobius' robo-scorpions. Three of them, about half the group, ran off to deal with the mechanical intrusion while Driver Nephi and two of his girls kept on drinking and shooting up.

Cass took one of the girl's down with a well-placed blast to the back of her head, the shot penetrating in a few places to shatter the liquor bottle she was raising to her lips. Paul could almost hear the groan as Cass bemoaned the loss of precious amber.

Unfortunately for Paul, Driver Nephi's surprise wasn't as debilitating as he had hoped, the wild man surging up with a speed that had shocked the courier. As Cass took out her anger at the loss of liquor on the other Fiend, Paul found himself under the brutal assault from a heavy golf club, keenly aware that he should have been further back before starting this fracas. He glanced at Cass and came to the conclusion that his edge was softening. Instead of doing it his old way, he modified his tactics so that he would remain close to her, and her weapon was decidedly a close-in instrument.

He pondered his newfound vulnerability as he grunted and rolled off the stinking dead man, his movements prompting the fiend to grace them with one final act of fetor, a massive fart actually bubbling up in his pants and vibrating the legs of his pants.

Not knowing whether to hurl or laugh, the courier settled on wobbling his way to his carbine and lining up the swiftly approaching fiends in his sites.

Cass stood calmly by him and let him concentrate, the triple 3 round bursts he unleashed dropping all three fiends in the dirt, their forward momentum making them skid and slide even as they died. She had always been impressed by his aim and steady hand, even with the massive bruises forming on his face. As he stood up, she gave him an appreciative smack on his bottom, chuckling at his surprised yelp. She then smacked him again, only this time with a stimpack, her laughter rising in tandem with his sudden upward leap as the needle jabbed into the muscle of his backside.

"You could have warned me! And really? In the ass?"

"Where would the fun be in that?"

The throbbing began to subside somewhat as the stimpack accelerated his healing, the sigh of relief as the world stopped spinning quite so wildly doing much to diminish any rancor he had toward the fiery woman. He smiled in gratitude and felt her mouth on his as she kissed him, almost chaste in its brief brush across his lips. He grinned like a fool, unable to contain it as she winked at him, getting to work divesting the fiends of anything they clearly weren't going to need anymore.

A few minutes later, a little bit richer in both caps and ammo, the pair headed off to rendezvous with their team mates.

* * *

The sheaf of reports fell from his fingers as he collapsed back into his chair, the metal frame groaning in alarm at the unexpected assault.

For several tense moments, General Lee Oliver could only stare at the ceiling while his adjutants and officers could only look at him in dismay.

A particularly bold lieutenant reached down and picked up the report that landed near his feet. Smoothing the wrinkled paper, his eyes scanned the short message, the cloud of discontent shadowing his face as the contents made a ruin of any good cheer he could muster.

"Sir? What has happened?" A major asked, breaking the silence and very nearly making several others jump at the unexpected and unwelcome intrusion of sound. He looked over at the lieutenant, whose shaking hands made the pages crinkle further.

Reaching over gently, Colonel Moore took the reports and began to read herself, her expression darkening with each word.

"Forlorn Hope has been lost. The Legion has razed it and crucified the garrison." She announced coldly.

The room erupted into pandemonium as officer leapt up and shouted over each other, some calling for immediate reprisals while others cautioned defense.

It took several moments, but eventually the tumult died down, all eyes fixed on General Oliver as he tried to draw himself up to his full height.

"All NCR forces are to fall back to the dam immediately. Our reinforcements are not yet here and with this attack, Caesar has shown us that he is nearly ready to make his main push to take it. All outposts will be the ranger's responsibility. Transmit the necessary orders to Hanlon."

The room erupted again, numerous protests flying at the General as he stormed out, grabbing Colonel Moore by the arm as he did. His face was impassive, inured even, to the dismay of his officers.

He slammed the door on them, shutting them up temporarily as he turned to his subordinate in the hallway.

"The President's reinforcements are just days away. They've assembled several battalions at Shady Sands and are deploying by vehicle. I am combining two of the battalions to yours and bringing you up to brigade strength. You will be given artillery support. You need to push immediately and pick up reinforcement from Helios One."

Colonel Moore was a little confused, "To what end sir?"

"There are some loose ends that need to be tended to before we commit to this battle with Caesar."

The pause hung heavily between them.

"You're going to kill the Brotherhood of Steel."

* * *

"That dumb son of a bitch!" Chief Hanlon swore, throwing the radio down and prompting a wince from his operator at the mistreatment of his beloved equipment.

"That bastard wants his big pitched battle and is happy to damn the rest of the Mojave to do it."

The rangers in the room with him looked at each other in concern at the orders they had heard from General Oliver. They were pulling all main line NCR troopers from every outpost in the Mojave to reinforce the dam and the few rangers were being ordered to man these outposts to observe and report.

With how few there were, to observe and report was all they could do. They could manage maybe two to three per outpost and that was gutting their scouting and intelligence operations. Especially that those damned frumentarii took out one of their listening posts just prior to the Forlorn Hope battle.

"He does know that we can't possibly hope to defend those outposts right? Is there something I'm not seeing?" A random ranger asked.

"What you're not seein is any damn common sense. He promised us another company of rangers, like he had anything to do with that." Chief Hanlon snarled. The grizzled veteran had requested more Rangers to be deployed from Baja directly from the President and the man had listened.

"So what do we do?"

Chief Hanlon drummed his fingers on the worn wood of the radio desk, considering that very question. He looked up and out the window, the slanted rays of the afternoon sun making the silver in his beard shine with a light of their own. He was tired, so very tired. He couldn't afford to show it, but it nested deep in his bones and gnawed at him like a mole rat.

This was a fucking mess. An entire camp on the front wiped out. An outpost of a dozen rangers slaughtered. His boys were engaged in skirmishing actions against roving bands of Legion troopers all over the damn map. He was spread thin, he had too few men, fewer still when considering that he had been actively undermining NCR activities with false reports and miscommunications. He betrayed his nation in order to serve a higher cause, to help his beloved NCR see the futility of holding the Mojave. Even if they win at Hoover dam a second time, ultimately, the NCR will lose. Now he intended to betray them again, by turning to the one source of manpower here that the NCR would never suffer, the Brotherhood of Steel.

He was not blind to the happenings in Hidden Valley, just as he was not blind to a certain courier working closely with them and these so called, 'Terrans.'

"We ask for help." He muttered, his gravelly voice almost giving out.

"I don't think the General…"

"Not from the General."

The rangers were taken aback, "Surely you don't intend to go around General Oliver?"

"No, I intend to disregard him completely."

"Then who?"

"Courier Six."

* * *

Time slowed and her perception narrowed to only what was displayed through her scope. She lined up her first shot, the Mohawk bedecked Fiend completely unaware of the reticles red cross-hairs framing his face. The butt of her rifle forced her shoulder back as the round leapt from the muzzle at hypersonic speeds. She lined up her next shot with preternatural speed, her next shot fired before her first target even hit the ground. Tap tap tap. Three Fiends were rendered nothing more than inanimate sacks of meat in as many seconds. Their bodies falling almost in unison around a very surprised Cook-Cook.

The man swore as his gang fell around him, the fourth and final fiend opening his mouth in confusion before another round tore his head clean off. Cook-Cook wiped the blood and gore from his face and had the presence of mind to grab his flamer and duck behind the nearest wall.

He scanned the landscape, looking for any sign of the sniper as the bodies of his people cooled. He ducked instinctually as another round tore through the window opening and pinged off his fuel tank.

Wait… what's that hissing noise?

A stinging haze of fuel vapor assailed his nose, his eyes widening in shock as he realized that his primary feed line had been punctured by the sniper and was hosing his back with fuel. Panicking, he tore off the flamer and hurled it as far from him as he could. It landed with a dull clank and rolled over, Cook-Cook held his breath for several moments as he ducked down and glanced at his flamer. Anger began to seep into the cracks of his worry, eventually supplanting that as his primary focus. Anger that flared white hot as he heard the pained low from his beloved Brahmin, Queenie. The beast was maddened with pain from the shot she received in her hindquarters, her panic leading her to run off into the surrounding countryside.

He picked up an assault rifle once belonging to one of his men, racking the slide to chamber a round and strode out of the ruins, shouting unintelligibly in a challenge to his unseen assailant as fury overtook his senses.

His surprise was complete when the rifle was knocked out of his grip by a sharp blow to his right hand, the unexpected strike staggering him. A slight tinge of ozone tickled at his nostrils as he whirled to face the source of a strange fizzling sound, like lightning that had journeyed far and was petering out.

Blue arcs of energy cascaded down a feminine shape, hexagon patterns coming to focus as they shed their chameleon like quality to reveal the strangely armored blonde girl. Her eyes blazed with hatred as she tossed her head, shaking her hair free from some kind of mask as she pulled it off. With deliberate care, eyes locked onto his like a laser, she pulled two wickedly curved knifes from the back of her belt.

She bounced on her toes as she settled into a combat stance, one knife held forward horizontally while the other was held blade up behind her back.

Heedless, he snarled and lunged, his armored fists grasping at the little woman's slender neck. He was going to hurt her before he killed her. He saw it as clear as day in his mind, his hands wrapped around her throat while blood vessels burst in her bulging eyes. He'd strangle her while he fucked her, then he'd roast the bitch on a spit and serve her up as the sweetest of meat.

His immersion in his fantasy was so compelling that he didn't even notice that his hands grasped nothing but air and that he was suddenly on a knee, the limb failing him inexplicably. The pain came with the realization, a line of burning agony behind his right knee. The offending limb would not answer his commands to push his body back up, blood flowing freely down his leg and staining the desert floor.

He growled and swung his fist, cheering to himself as he felt it impact on the woman's shoulder, throwing off her next assault. Circling more warily, she lunged forward again.

He knocked away her leading blade with bruising force, but failed to deflect the trailing blade as she spun and buried it in his left kneecap.

Roaring in rage and pain, he grasped the offending length of metal and tried to wrest it free through gritted teeth. His hand and the blade were kicked free with a spinning kick, the woman letting the momentum of her strike carry her past the kneeling Fiend and actually managed to catch her blade as it spun in the air. He grimaced and glared at her, as if to dare her to kill him there and then.

He paused as she shook her head, denying his quick death. Like lightning she was behind him, her knives driving into his shoulder blades and rendering his arms useless. He flopped onto the dusty ground and gasped out his agony, his body rocking as he thrashed as much as he could in a vain attempt at resistance.

He felt her iron like grip on his hair, his spiked up hair giving her a good grip as she tugged and dragged the howling man toward his own cook fire. His struggles increased tenfold as he felt the heat from the fire lick at his face, suddenly and grotesquely aware of what she intended. He stared into the fire as it grew bigger and bigger in his view, morbidly fascinated by the fire up until he was thrown into it.

True agony danced along his skin, he opened his mouth to scream a high pitched and singularly terrifying squall as he thrashed in the hot coals. Hot ashes choked him as his flesh bubbled and singed the pain strangely abating as the fire melted his skin and roasted his nerve endings.

She stood over him and watched him burn, his struggles abating as all strength fled from him, the effigy of her all-encompassing ire finally attaining a measure of peace as the purifying flame released him. She felt that it was too short, but at least it was poetic. She remembered the young blustering lieutenant as the Fiend burned, the man's life cut short before he could learn restraint or wisdom or anything else. She remembered the kindly sergeant, a man who should have been living comfortably spoiling his grandchildren. She remembered the other NCR troopers, conscripts who did their reluctant duty while longing for home. Lives cut short because of this filth. Lives avenged at last.


	31. Chapter 30: Alea Iacta Est

**Chapter 30: Alea Iacta Est**

" _The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion."_

~Albert Camus

* * *

Ashur appeared almost nonchalant in his approach, though his easy going saunter through the ruins of southern Vegas was betrayed by the intense focus in his mind. He felt the presence of everything around him, from the grubs deep in the earth to the dozen nearly feral canines patrolling a small trailer park. He felt the sickening thought process of the Fiend named Violet, her exaggerated affection for the animals and her distinct taste for flesh, both human and otherwise. She was a cancer and he would fill the role as the surgeon, slicing away the tumor while leaving the healthy tissue intact.

Confident in her safety with her dogs on constant patrol, she neither saw nor expected the invisible spectre as he probed her thoughts and mentally mapped out the position of her dogs. Under normal circumstances, he would engage her from afar and let death descend upon this horror of a human being both swift and unremitting. But he felt particularly poetic today, perhaps as a result of spending too much time amongst the other Raiders. He reached out with his augmented mind and felt the simple minds of the beasts, cajoling and molding them to his will.

She hummed to herself as she cut long thin strips of thigh meat off of her latest victim, the trader having unwittingly stumbled into her domain on his way to Westside. The fool had been miserly and had foregone any protection, trusting in his own dogs and his shotgun to protect him. Though reticent to slay the beasts, their loyalty was to their owner and so her pack had ripped them to shreds while she carved him up with her machete. She ran her wet tongue over sharpened teeth at the memory of his screams, her blade making wet thwacking sounds as it sundered his flesh.

He was somewhat overweight, his meat deliciously marbled with fat. She popped a strip of raw flesh in her mouth and savored the taste as blood dribbled down her chin and in between her breasts. She chewed as she continued to butcher the leg, portioning out the delicious meat for her beloved animals. One was coming now, a low growl issuing from its throat at the smell of fresh meat. She cooed to it absentmindedly as she worked, paying the beast little mind as it approached and sniffed at the leg and at her. It licked her bare leg with its rough tongue, eliciting a giggle from the cannibalistic Fiend. More of her dogs were drawn in, and she began to feel irritated as they jostled her, their impatience growing.

They seemed more agitated than normal and would not leave despite her barked commands and rough shoves. She made to shoo one with a free hand and felt more shock than pain when her beloved pet bit her hand. She cuffed it, suddenly angry at her children as they got more rowdy.

Sharp pain lanced through her leg as another one of her animals bit her on the leg, a low growl issuing from its throat as it sunk its teeth into the meat of her calf. Yelping, she stood up and kicked at the mutt, freeing her leg.

She stepped away from the haunch, resigned to let her impatient and hungry animals have the damn thing. But they paid it no mind, eyeing her with jaws dripping with saliva. Fear suddenly blossomed in her chest as she backed away, her pack shadowing her slow retreat.

This wasn't like them at all! She didn't have much time to ponder the mystery as the nearest hound leapt for her throat, the dog latching onto the arm she managed to throw up in defense. She fell back with a cry and began to plead with her animals as they surged and began to tear into her, ripping into her body with wild abandon.

Ashur listened to her screams and used his advanced optics to magnify the Fiend's predicament. Good, all the hounds were busily tearing at each other and their master, fighting each other for the chance to sink their fangs into her flesh. He waited for the opportune moment, when the woman's struggles diminished and the animals were in optimal position around their former mistress. He harnessed the raw maelstrom of psionic power swirling in his head and added it to the terror and pain rolling off of Violet, letting the storm of energy crescendo before unleashing it as a psionic lash. Violet exploded violently, sending gobbets of flesh and shards of bone flying out like a fragmentation grenade. Her hounds were blown away from the explosion, their hides perforated with splinters of bone from the unfortunate raider. The few hounds that escaped injury set upon their wounded fellows in a massive orgy of snarling lips and snapping teeth.

By the time Ashur walked into the domain of the now former Fiend Violet, it looked even more like an abbatoir then it did before, fresh blood dripping off of the trailers like wet paint. A single dog whimpered as it nursed a torn leg, the lone survivor finally freed from the spectre's influence. It looked up at the now visible Ashur, his psionic energy expended from the psionic lash, but it had no energy to resist when he placed a boot on its neck, pressing it down into the ground. He twirled his blade in his hands before kneeling down and placing a hand over the dog's eyes and slicing its throat in a single swift cut. It died in moments, shuddering as its life's blood gushed from the horrific wound.

Cleaning off his knife, he rubbed sand onto his boots to soak up the blood and scrub away the worst of the filth. Sensing no more threats, he moved out, re-activating his cloak as his psionic strength slowly returned.

* * *

An hour later, Courier Six stepped over the steaming body of the Fiend who had been lounging outside the tunnel leading into Vault 3. Jacky had somehow wrested control of the woman and forced the raider into lighting a Molotov and dropping it at her own feet. The woman stood there in a strange daze as the flames consumed her, only falling after the thick columns of billowing smoke robbed her of consciousness, her flesh popping and sizzling as it greedily immolated her.

"There doesn't seem to be a console on this side of the door." The courier mused, looking over the dauntingly stalwart vault door.

Cass sauntered up to it and gave it a rap with her knuckles, the knock barely audible against the thick metal doors. She shrugged and turned to Paul, the loud bang and high pitched squeal as the vault door began to open making her jump with a shriek.

Maxson fought against the smirk that was tugging at his lips with child-like insistence and managed to blank his expression when Cass turned to glare at him, as if daring him to laugh.

The door finished opening, revealing a bored looking Fiend with a somewhat vacant look on her face and her weapon dangling uselessly at her side, "About time you fuckers showed up, been waiting on this shipment… what the fuck?"

Her face screwed up in surprise at the four figures standing before her and the distinct smell of smoke and burning meat hanging like a funerary pall over them. Her thoughts on the matter were rudely interrupted by her neck being broken, her limp body sliding gently to the floor as Ashur loosened his hold on her.

"It's going to take you awhile to get the stink of her off of you spectre." Cass joked, kicking at the lifeless wretch.

Ashur let a wispy stream of purple tinted gas escape his rebreather in response, turning away from the others and disappearing amidst crackling red lightning. Jacky joined him, her own invisibility prologue'd with teal light.

In moments, a series of 'thwip thwip' like sounds echoed in the chamber followed by the dull whumps of bodies hitting the floor.

"We'd better hurry or our friends are going to get all the fun!"

As it was, the Spectre and the Ghost did leave a few of the Fiends for the others to deal with, though more than once the pair walked past a room whose contents were better left un-explored, courtesy of the invisible assassins.

Paul and Cass's passage was much livelier, marked with shouted insults and literal storms of chemically propelled lead. Cass happily gunned down fiend after fiend, her shotgun singing a litany of its own, the bellicose boom of its song writing its story across the passage in sprays of fiend blood.

Paul was much more precise and methodical in his approach, focusing his fire on the targets with ranged weapons, placing tight groupings center of mass while Cass dispatched the melee opponents.

Minutes later, Vault 3 had for the second time in its long history become a charnel house of butchery. This second instance serving as a form of justice for the ghosts of the first, the original inhabitants of the vault who had opened their door in peace. Motor-runner growled animalistic, his dogs snarling in threat to either side of his 'throne' while he throttled a chainsaw.

"You? Take care of me? Ha! You don't look half-tough enough." He barked, revving his chainsaw to punctuate his words. He jumped up from his seat and advanced, swinging the heavy blade through the air while smoke churned from the motor. His chainsaw roared in challenge, drowning out all other sound. His dogs surged forward as well, mouths peeled back to reveal slavering jaws and wickedly sharp white teeth.

Paul leaned back to avoid a downward cut and stepped in before Motor-runner could recover, grasping the man's arms and keeping the chainsaw pointed down. He drove a knee up into Motor-runner's crotch several times in rapid succession, the Fiend's face grimacing in agony despite the armor protecting it. Motor-runner staggered back but kept hold of the chainsaw, his arms straining against the courier's iron-like grip. Maxson took a step back and twisted the chainsaw up and over, pulling Motor-runner with him and twisting his arms painfully over his shoulder. He felt a series of quick jabs in his side, the surprising strength behind the blows almost making him release his hold on the chainsaw. He pumped his legs and drove the leader of the Fiend's against the cold metal walls of the Vault, slamming him back into the unyielding surface twice before jerking his head back, catching the raider's face with the back of his head.

Finally, the stubborn raider dropped the chainsaw, letting it sputter and dry as it vibrated in circles on the floor. Motor-runner clutched his face, blood dribbling in fat ropes between his fingers. Maxson drew his 10mm and fired, but the Fiend surprised him by striking out and slapping his firing hand down and to the side, the round pinging against the wall behind him. The Fiend slammed his helmeted head into the courier's, howling in dismay as his target twisted and took the blow on his shoulder instead. Paul's pistol fell from his nerveless fingers as his shoulder throbbed painfully from the powerful blow.

Adrenaline fueled desperation coursed through his veins and lent him a strength he had never known. Paul wrapped the fiend's neck in his functioning arm, squeezing the Fiend's neck with all his might, the muscles in his forearm standing out like iron cords as Motor-runner gaped wordlessly and thrashed against the hold.

They jostled back and forth, the Fiend simply refusing to die despite the choke hold the courier kept him in. Finally regaining some feeling in his right arm, Paul groped at his belt for Chance's Knife, cutting his fingers on the razor sharp blade as he tried to tug it free. He shouted in triumph as the blade glinted in the Vault's fluorescent light. He brought it down on the back of the fiend's head, moaning in dismay when the raider jerked violently to the side, throwing off his aim and sending them both stumbling off-balance. Psycho enhanced strength and desperation fueled Motor-Runner as he pried the courier's arm off his neck and threw him bodily into the wall.

Air rushed out of his lungs, the impact momentarily stunning him. He felt the man's rough hands grab him from behind and fingers curled around his neck in an ironic reversal of their former lock. He stepped back and bent over, throwing the man over his shoulder in a single smooth motion. The raider slammed into the wall and skidded down it like a ragdoll, his limbs splayed comically and his helmet slanted sideways from the impact.

Wasting no time, he kicked out at the man, knocking him over and sending the helmet skidding across the metal floor. Beyond angry, the courier drew 'A Light Shining in Darkness' and emptied its clip into the hapless raider, his body juddering with every .45 round that smacked into his flesh. The courier went to reload when a gloved hand came to rest on his, the simple gesture shocking him into immobility.

He looked up at the impassive mask of the spectre, "What the hell were you guys doing? You couldn't have given me a hand there?!"

"Aw, quit yer belly achin'. You had it handled." Cass drawled, smiling easily at him.

He opened his mouth to retort when the look in her eyes told the truth of her statement. She had been scared for him, and probably would have intervened if he hadn't dispatched the Fiend's leader when he had. His angry reply dying in his throat, he threw an arm over the redhead's shoulder and hobbled from the room, not sparing the dead raider another look.

Ashur watched the man's fingers twitch, and looking over the raider carefully, noted that his wounds were fatal if not treated immediately. Pulling his knife free from its sheath, he removed even that remote possibility by opening his throat so deeply that it nearly severed his neck. Blood frothed from the ravaged throat as the man tried to take his last breaths. Ashur stepped away, nodding at Jacky as he did, leaving her to witness the Fiend's metaphoric and literal end.

* * *

Diomedes, son of Medes, Hero of the Southern Tribe Insurrection, grimaced in dismay at the words his celebrated father spoke.

The young centurion leaned over the map in the center of the command tent, his officers at his back as his face reddened further at the mild rebuke Medes offered in response to the young man's battle plans.

Skypio sat back, busying himself by running a whetstone over his gladius, the soft scratching rasp competing with the ragged breaths of the young Centurion as he fought to control his temper.

"I deserve my own chance for glory, father." He growled, trying not to wince at how small and petulant his voice sounded.

His father made it that much worse with the soft chuckle his comment elicited from the grizzled veteran, "Of course you do son." His placating tone shaming the young man even further, "But your plan relies too much on brute strength."

"There is something to be said for brute strength." Skypio offered.

Medes laughed softly, "Yes, my brother, you have shown time and again the merits of brawn. But my son is young yet, and it is my wish that he learn a more balanced approach to warfare than simply charging in heedless of the enemy's plans."

"With enough speed and ferocity, what need have you to know the enemy's plans? You kill him before he ever has the chance to put them in motion!" The boy insisted.

His father's face darkened at his boy's continued obstinance, "The Malpais Legate charged in and failed to fluidly react to the enemy's tactics. What happened to him? Was he celebrated? Honored?"

"I threw him into the canyon after he had been covered in pitch and set on fire." Skypio chuckled, remembering the former Legate's disgrace.

"Do not laugh too flippantly, my friend. Graham took the blame for the failure as a commander should. Your own assault did not end so well either."

Skypio sobered, "No. You're right, and I apologize, it is not my place to interrupt the lesson with your son." He stood up and moved to leave the tent, "Speaking of sons, I go to plant more seed in that delightful slave, perhaps one day I may be blessed like you have been."

Medes turned back to his hot-blooded child, "I am only advising you, son. Caesar has tasked you with razing Novac, and how you do so is your decision. But listen to this one piece of advice from an old warrior. Keep something back in case the enemy surprises you. If I am wrong, then no harm will come of it. But if I am right, then you will have the flexibility to react appropriately."

"Yes Father." Diomeded conceded, bowing his head at his father's wisdom. He turned to his officers and waved them back to the map showing Novac and the surrounding areas.

"Deploy men to scout here and here. I need to know the positions of Novac's defenders and any potential for traps or ambushes before we begin our assault. If all goes well, we will attack in three waves. By dawn tomorrow, we will offer the smoking ruins of that pitiful town as tribute to mighty Caesar."

Medes nodded approvingly as his son laid out his revised battle plan, his officers listening carefully and offering points as they traced the map with their fingers. By the time he left them, the Tribune was certain that his son's plan would give him success on his first real command. He felt his heart swell with pride as he entered his own tent, his wife smiling up at him as she finished mending a shirt of his.

He kissed the top of her greying head and sat down beside her, taking comfort in the presence of the mother of his children. Though by the law of the Legion, all women were subservient, some would say slaves, of the men, Medes had never treated his woman as such. He respected Antiope's opinion and genuinely cared and loved her for all the years that they had been together. He had taken no other woman into his bed and had often honored her, even in public. It was this one foible of his that had cost him prestige in the Legion's eyes. It was why he had risen no higher than Tribune despite the string of victories he had given Caesar over the years. Still, he thought, as he looked over at the woman he loved, he would have it no other way.

A very different relationship marked the murky interior of another tent, the abode of mighty Skypio. Braziers encircled the space, the weak light dancing across the dull features of Tech Sergeant Reyes. She didn't react as a ray of sunlight violated the shadows as Skypio entered, the flap of the tent falling back into place behind the powerfully built man.

He took what he wanted from her, but was not needlessly cruel or wanton. He had seen to it that her wounds were seen to and that she was well-fed.

In the first days, she had fought, refusing all food and resisting as much as she could against his advances. But her passionate resistance seemed only to please the brute, as his bellicose laugh rose with the challenge. He enjoyed her spirit, the fight to conquer her seeming to only further fuel his ardor. Eventually, she recognized that she needed her strength if she were ever to escape this place, so she ate and she bided her time as her wounds healed. To allay any suspicions, she continued to resist, albeit not as strongly as before. Perhaps he would think he was winning, and in that confidence give her the opening she would need. She glared at him with hot blooded hatred as he disrobed, her fists tightening in anticipation.

He chuckled at the sight of her, so small and yet so defiant. He hardened in moments, the anticipation of the coming fight quickening his blood. He proudly bore the marks of her defiance, coming forth from his tent after his lust had cooled, the blood trails from the scratches she carved into his side worn like a badge of honor. His children with her would be powerful indeed! He almost considered making her into something akin to Medes' relationship with his woman. He laughed at the thought. Women were good for one thing, and when they weren't good for that anymore…

* * *

The 'Transportalponder' glimmered with blue radiance as the Courier pointed it at the entrance to Vault 3. With a 'thoom' of displaced air, another group of robo-scorpions arrived, pre-programmed to transmit a warning to anyone approaching to avoid the area under their guard. These he set to patrolling the immediate area around the Vault, in order to keep curious eyes away. One of the robo-scorpions, the largest of the latest batch he had summoned, turned towards him and bobbed up and down as if to get his attention.

He looked down at it curiously as its external speakers crackled, "Hello there? Is anyone at home? Confound this interface! Courier? Are you there?"

Paul Maxson chuckled, "I'm here, Dr. Mobius. What can I do for you?"

"Well I…"

"MOVE OVER YOU HACK! I WANT TO TELL HIM!"

"Now listen here Klein…"

"YOU ALWAYS HOG THE COMMUNICATIONS ARRAY, IT'S MY TURN!"

"Fine, fine."

"AHEM! YES! LISTEN TO ME LOBOTOMITE!"

"Courier Six, you 5th grade science teacher."

"WHAT? OH RIGHT," Dr. Klein seemed to have lost a little steam from the correction, "LISTEN TO ME COURIER SIX! DON'T THINK THAT THE THINK TANK HAS FORGOTTEN ABOUT YOUR PROMISE! THOSE PALTRY OFFERINGS OF TERRAN TECH WERE AMUSING FOR A TIME BUT NOW WE REQUIRE MORE!"

Paul sighed and pinched his nose at the obviously continuing antics of the juvenile doctors of the Think Tank, "My apologies Dr. Klein. My schedule has been awfully full lately. Please be assured that I will endeavor to provide you with more subjects for experimentation and study forthwith."

"AH WELL THEN, GOOD! CARRY ON THEN!"

Cass shook her head at the exchange, wondering for the hundredth time why Paul had let the morally bankrupt eggheads live at all. Plus they were a pain in the ass to deal with, except maybe Dr. Mobius, as even she enjoyed talking to the kindly old scientist on occasion.

The external speakers crackled again, the Courier wincing in anticipation of another tirade, "Oh what now?"

Instead of the irate mutterings of a robotic brain, a synthesized voice came over the channel, "Priority One communique from Brotherhood of Steel."

"Oh? Er, then open a channel or whatever."

"Compliance."

The robo-scorpions monotone was replaced by a very human and very agitated sounding voice, "Mr. Maxson, sir? This is Scribe Hollman. Elder McNamara has called an emergency session of the council and has requested your presence immediately."

"Requested… sure." The courier deadpanned, "We're done here anyway, please vector pickup at my coordinates."

"Dropship is already enroute sir. ETA, 3 minutes."

"Acknowledged. Courier out."

He turned to the team, "I suppose you heard that, yeah?"

Ashur merely nodded while of course, Cass had something to say.

"What the hell is this all about?"

"I don't know Cass, with so much going on now, it could be anything. Guess we'll find out when we get there."

"Yeah, maybe the stick lodged up his ass came loose and he needs a committee to jam it back into place."

"Cass…"

"No no, it's all you, baby. Have fun with Sir Shitstain. I'm getting myself a drink or seven when we hit the bunker. Hope your meeting doesn't run too long, I plan on doing my drinking in the nude."

The courier groaned at the image that sprang to mind, Cass laughing at his obvious discomfort and even Jacky allowing a hint of a smile at the exchange.

Thankfully for Courier Six, he didn't have long to wallow in his agony. The promised dropship came into view moments later flying low over the horizon. The team were boarding before the ramp fully settled onto the dusty desert floor, breathing a sigh of contentment at the air conditioned interior. The dropship vaulted into the air and punched it back towards the Bunker, jostling its passengers alarmingly as they settled into their seats.

"Good lord, in a hurry are we?"

The pilot called back to them, "If you'd have heard the Elder's voice, you'd understand."

This piqued everyone's attention.

"What's happening, Lancer?"

"They think they've found Elijah."

* * *

The brood mother purred in pleasure as she stroked the steaming green canister the scientists had presented to her. She could feel the raw power swirling within the confines and instinctually knew that this latest iteration of vespene would meet her growing brood's needs. She hummed in pleasure, the sound bringing a smile to the collected teams; faces that have been warped and mutated through their exposure to the zerg. Dr. Usanagi's narrow face was lit from the tears along her jaw, the brilliant amber glow matching the fierce energy leaking from her eyes. She stood tall next to a diminutive Dr. Braun, who was a hunched, almost feral creature whose head had ballooned massively in proportion to his scaled body. His face was alight with the purple glow from his eyes, his mouth revealing a double row of sharp teeth as he grinned in delight.

The other scientists, their various mutations a panoply of diverse colors and shapes, gave various indications of gratitude for their Queen's favor. Once she had subjected them to the Zerg virus, they had become leashed to the gestalt hive mind, their every thought shared at the speed of light and the resulting efficiency quickly working through the myriad problems. This latest and most successful of their experiments yielded a very close approximation of the complex formula for vespene to date, and from their queen's reaction, it would serve its purpose.

"Synthesize more of the vespene immediately." She commanded through the link, the collected menagerie of former Enclave scientists bowing and shuffling or skittering out to carry out her will. Dr. Usanagi left last, her movements more subdued than the others. Shivarra eyed her carefully, noting that of all the thralls to the Swarm, she was the most reticent. She directed a zergling to tail the scientist, so that she could observe her activities for herself, in case the former Terran harbored any disloyal thoughts.

Summoning a drone, she handed the large canister of gas to it, the creature taking the utmost care as it gripped it in its massive mandibles. It floated off, preparing to help the hive cluster assimilate the energized gas.

High above Cheyenne Mountain, the central spire of the hive cluster rose majestically into the air, its spire haloed by a group of overlords. One of them descended, observing a single drone bursting from its egg and floating to a cleared patch of ground. It turned in place and sank to the ground, its clawed wing like shape merging with the creep and its back turning translucent as the zygote within it took shape. Shivarra watched through her overlord as the zygote spun and grew rapidly, making good use of the flood of energy provided by the new vespene.

A cascade of purple and red fluid fountained as the zygote burst from its protective amniotic sac, a series of spikes elongating from its back like a clawed hand. Flesh grew between the 'fingers' and expanded as a tubelike mouth opened up at the 'palm' of the structure.

Shivarra's near constant smile grew as the hydralisk den finished taking shape, she only had to wait for more of the vespene before she could morph any of the large number of larvae she had into hydralisks. Though patience was not among her virtues, she would find other ways to amuse herself while the scientists worked. Perhaps by razing another Legion settlement to the southwest?

* * *

"Company! Ah-Ten-Hut!"

Commander Griff resisted the urge to rub his ears as Sergeant Petreko gave the command. She had finally cajoled him into a review of the troops and had gathered the bulk of the Terran forces for him just outside the command center. Despite his reluctance, he was visibly impressed by what his team had accomplished.

Thirty Two marines stood at attention, their gauss rifles held at port arms as they stood in lines of eight, four deep. To their left, 4 brilliantly orange power armored firebats stood in as close of an approximation of attention as they could with their bulky armor. To the right of the marine formation, six black armored marauders stood, likewise at attention.

Further to the right from the Marauders, five medics stood in their pristine white armor. Bourgeois gave him a tired smile as he passed, his momentary concern at her increasingly haggard appearance giving him pause. She had been throwing herself into her work, volunteering for every mission and then spending most of the rest of her waking hours training her contemporaries. It had paid off, as the refugees from Gomorrah joined Hannigan and herself to produce motivated and well trained medics, but he was concerned at the effect it was having on her. He made a note to himself to speak to her about it.

Captain Griff walked in front of their formation, stopping occasionally to share a few words with the various men and women. Sergeant Petreko led him further to a brace of vulture bikes, the grinning face of Carlitos greeting the commander as the former Omertas snapped off a crisp salute. Griff returned the gesture and clasped the man's hand firmly, nodding in sincere appreciation of his service.

"I'm impressed, Sergeant. Thank you. Please dismiss the team and brief me on the rest."

After another ear ringing and expletive laden order from the blonde Russian, the forces dispersed to their duties and they reconvened in the command center's CIC.

"Sir, vespene production is low but stable. We have two dropships in service, one of which is stationed here and the other at Nellis. We have a total of four Mk II Banshees, one stationed here and the others also at Nellis. The former Boomers are clamoring for more, but without a starport, aircraft production is a handjob."

The Commander couldn't quite stifle the giggle at the woman's choice of wording. She looked at him, perplexed at his reaction. Shrugging it off, she continued.

"Nellis is secure, their artillery is still active and we have supplemented their defense with four strategically placed bunkers and missile turrets. Meyers reports that Primm is doing well, he has recruited a few more men from the local populace and the NCR detachment there has been cordial thus far. We have been receiving reports of increased Legion activity, including the attack on their Listening post and Camp Forlorn Hope."

Captain Griff stroked his chin in thought, "Once Ashur and Summers get back and have a chance to rest up, have them do some recon. Send out some of those vultures as well. Also, queue up some more, the Brotherhood has requested some units for their own reconnaissance."

Her acknowledgement was interrupted by the Adjutant, her servos whirring as she turned to face him.

"Commander. Receiving incoming transmission." Her synthesized feminine voice was replaced by the gruff tones of Elder McNamara, "Captain. I am calling an emergency meeting of the Council. Please join us in the Council chamber as soon as you can."

Griff nodded to Petreko and she moved off to carry out his orders, "I'm free Elder. I am on my way now."

The Elder didn't answer, merely cutting the transmission, which made Griff raise his eyebrow in concern. It wasn't like the professional Elder to be so rude, something had clearly rattled the man. He strode from the CIC, collecting his wife on the way as he made his way into the BOS Bunker, a hundred questions firing off within his mind at the nature of this 'emergency'.

* * *

A/N: I apologize for the wait, I lost computer access for a while there due to network issues. Things are spooling up for the end game ladies and gentlemen, so as Lt. Weyland would say, 'Strap yourselves in boys!'


	32. Chapter 31: The Path to Hell

**Chapter 31: The Path to Hell**

" _We learn from history that we do not learn from history"_

~ Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel

* * *

The Courier hurried through the halls with Cass grumbling and trying to keep pace, their footsteps sending metallic echoes through the complex as they stormed across the grilled flooring of the primary bunker. A knight, resplendent in the new T-72 power armor, opened the door for him, allowing him to enter without breaking stride.

The former office of the elder was brightly lit, almost hurting his eyes with their white glare as he finally came to a stop. He nodded at Commander Johnson and his wife, who were already seated to the left of the Elder. The Captain looked up and smiled at him before turning back to whisper in earnest with McNamara. To the Elder's right, the former Overseer of Vault 18, Sara Williams, sat quietly, concern etching her delicate features. On her right, Mother Pearl, now the Knight-Captain of the Lancer Corps, tried her best to humor the antics of the younger people bustling around her, the various scribes and knights moving in the background with reports and messages.

The raised dais in the middle where the elder's desk once stood remained as it was, albeit bare of any furniture. A circular desk was placed on a raised section installed along the back wall of the room, allowing the 'council members' to look down on anyone standing on the dais. Even though the arrangement was meant to be temporary, the courier couldn't help but be impressed at how quickly they had modified this room to accommodate a larger number of people. In fact, this would constitute the first real meeting of the council.

Finally noticing that the last of them had arrived, Elder McNamara drew himself up to his full height, waiting patiently for the room to quiet. Head Paladin Hardin and Head Scribe Taggart nodded to the Courier as he sat down next to them, though the Scribe's look was more of a scowl and the Paladin's more affable.

"Thank you all for coming on such short notice, but I believe that recent information provided by our Terran friends is of the utmost concern to us." He turned to the Terran Captain, "With your permission?"

At Griff's nod the Elder continued, "Adjutant, please relay pertinent information regarding archived signal 2-10 Bravo."

"Yes, Elder." The feminine computer answered, "At approximately 1800 hours yesterday evening, telemetry detected a radio transmission of unknown origin. Replaying transmission."

A brief burst of static was followed by a gravelly voice, "Dog, back in the cage."

Nolan became visibly agitated at the voice.

The adjutant continued, "At the Brotherhood's request, the voice was analyzed and compared to archived recordings of the individual known as Elder Elijah. There is an 83% match, with an 11% margin of error due to voice quality. Further, the radio transmission was traced to a location in the Mojave itself, though the low power of the transmission indicates that it was originally from another location."

Head Scribe Taggart cut in at this point, "My department has analyzed the Adjutant's findings. The origin matches up with an abandoned Brotherhood Bunker."

"This is no coincidence!" Nolan shouted, unable to restrain himself any longer. "It's the traitor Elijah. I have convened this council to formerly censure and arrest the bastard."

"Nolan." He visibly relaxed as Sara placed a delicate hand on his arm, sitting down abruptly like a petulant child.

Moving her hand to his shoulder, Sara stood, "I believe that it would be beneficial to discover the exact whereabouts of Elijah and bring him into custody." She looked down in sympathy at McNamara. "He has much to answer for."

"I agree that is important, but there are many other things that…" The courier was cut off, as Nolan fixed him with a glare.

"No. I don't care about whatever troubles the NCR has. This is Brotherhood business and as far as I am concerned, our ONLY business."

Veronica was never one to remain silent, and true to form she surged to her feet.

"How could you!? Hundreds are dead, people are at risk and all you can think about is one man?"

"That one man…" he began, his darkening face a terrible thing to behold.

"I know what he did! No one here was more betrayed by him than those of us who survived Helios One. I was there too, Elder. He was like a grandfather to me, even after he forbade my…" She choked up a little and fought to find her voice, "He left us and Christine was sent to find him. For all these years I wondered what became of her. Finding Elijah is the same as finding Christine. So you know that my motivation for finding him is every bit as strong as yours. And I'm telling you that we can't drop everything to charge after him. Not while the Mojave crumbles into war and madness around us!"

"Perhaps a strategic discussion would be useful here." Captain Johnson interjected, before Nolan and Veronica could launch into one of their infamous arguments.

McNamara nodded his assent, albeit reluctantly.

"Lancer-Captain, if you would."

Mother Pearl stood up and smiled at the council. She turned to her second, tapping the young Boomer on the shoulder to get the girl's attention.

"Be a dear and turn on the holo-projector, would you?"

"Yes ma'am." The young girl snapped off a salute, charmingly cute coming from an eight year old, and scampered to the controls, jostling the young scribe out of the way and keying in the commands herself.

Despite her youth, she commanded the computers with grace, as the room darkened and the holographic projection of the Mojave, courtesy of Terran technology, shimmered into view before the council.

Stepping in front of the display, Mother Pearl began her report.

"Our pilots have been getting' good experience and training with reconnaissance flights over the Mojave over the past few days. What they've observed is troop movements at every major NCR stronghold. Essentially, they're pulling back to the dam. Only a token force remains in most places."

No one saw him move, and so were surprised when the Courier joined her at the display.

"I know many of you have heard rumors that Camp Forlorn Hope has been attacked." He began.

Mother Pearl didn't like being interrupted, and actually shushed him gently before finishing her own report.

"I was just getting to that. Based on those reports, I sent a bird to overfly the camp. It is as the reports state, the camp has been razed. There are massive troop build-ups on the other side of the Colorado. The Legion presence has to have at least doubled in recent weeks."

Lancer-Captain Pearl smiled and waved at the courier, as if to say, 'Now you can talk.'

Swallowing down his embarrassment, the courier stepped in, "I was contacted by Chief Hanlon while en-route to this meeting. He confirms everything that the esteemed and lovely Lancer-Captain has reported."

If he thought that a blatantly obvious attempt to sweet talk her into forgiving him would work… he was right, she always did have a soft spot for him. She threw him a wink as she retook at her seat.

"The NCR are expecting reinforcements, promised to General Oliver himself by the President."

"I'm surprised the Chief would share sensitive information outside his chain of command." Nolan remarked.

"Chief Hanlon has a complicated relationship with General Oliver and the President. Though considered a hero by the public, he has been outspoken in his criticism of what the NCR has been doing out here. He's tired of seeing his boys dying to hold land that is simply too big a bite for the NCR to chew. He dearly loves the Republic, a true patriot, and he wants nothing more than for the NCR to pull back and leave this death trap behind."

The council didn't seem entirely convinced, "Nevertheless, this information has to be taken with a measure of suspicion."

The courier nodded in acquiescence, "The Rangers are being reinforced with a company out of California. They are being ordered to take up station at the outposts being abandoned by the NCR and to stymie Legion activities along the Colorado."

"No wonder he's pissed." Griff announced, "He's been asked to cover a massive area of land, an area that a much larger force has essentially failed to secure, and is being told to do it with less men."

The courier nodded at the Commander's assessment, "There are a lot of people out there that are going to be woefully exposed to the Legion. The NCR is focusing all their attention on the dam, General Oliver is hoping for a grand last battle there. The Legion isn't exactly playing by his game, hitting targets all across the Colorado, they are weakening the NCR's position. I wouldn't be surprised that if left undeterred, General Oliver would find himself surrounded."

"And what of Vegas itself?"

"It's a powder keg." The courier answered, gravely.

"Mr. House is playing a dangerous game bleeding both the NCR and the Legion in an attempt to assert his own dominance in the region. For the three families, well, as an example… I recently undertook action against the Omertas, who were hatching a plot to throw the Strip into disarray by attacking just as the Legion attacks, thinking that they'd be able to hand it over to Caesar when he thrashes the NCR."

He took a deep breath, "The Westside and Freeside folks are suffering the most. Though the Westside is maintaining order fairly well, it won't take much for them to collapse into anarchy. Freeside is already an anarchy, with the Kings and the Followers doing everything they can just to keep afloat."

"Do you still intend to carry on with your plan?" Nolan asked, quietly.

"I do."

McNamara looked back over the other councilors.

"I get it, the situation here is grave. Of what concern is that to us? How does any of this overshadow OUR impetus to go after Elijah?" McNamara was being obstinate in his view, clearly the nightmares that still plagued him from the devastation they had suffered during Operation Sunburst had left an indelible mark upon him.

"Elder, if I may." McNamara was surprised that Edgar chose to speak up then, as despite their differences in the past, he had thought that in this, the Head Paladin would be firmly in his corner.

By the expression on his face, the Paladin himself was somewhat surprised at his own willingness to stand against the Elder, but the recent weeks had taught him that there were better paths to tread.

"Sir, fellow councilors, I believe that we can accomplish our duty to apprehend the traitor Elijah and use the situation with the Legion and NCR to our advantage."

He was careful to frame his remarks specifically for the more hardline Brotherhood members, who were having trouble adjusting to the influx of Vault 18 and Boomer personnel.

"Filling in the gaps left by the NCR would strengthen our position and give us more freedom to maneuver. Furthermore, it will foster goodwill with the wastelanders and perhaps ease our mission to safeguard them from dangerous technology. If they see us as their benefactors, they will be that much more willing to approach us with technology or information."

"I concur with Head Paladin Hardin." Sara affirmed, adding her vote.

Nolan's sigh was profound and his face seemed haggard. The acerbic expression did much to hide the immense satisfaction that bloomed within him. Hope had been renewed in the man, hope for the future of his Chapter and hope for his own, as the blossoming affection he felt towards the former Overseer seemed to reinvigorate the old soldier.

The willingness of someone has hard-lined as Head Paladin Hardin, who represented many of the old guard, to come up with this kind of compromise told him that the Brotherhood was evolving. He resisted the temptation to look at Veronica, surely she would see his own turn as vindication and he would not give her that satisfaction… yet.

He straightened in his seat and fixed each council member in turn with a firm glare, as if gauging the truth of their character.

After a somewhat tense moment, "The matter before the council, to reinforce the positions left vulnerable by the NCR withdrawal, is up for vote. All those in favor?"

Head Knight Lorenzo, recently promoted, voted aye.

Head Paladin Hardin, voted aye.

Councilor Williams, speaking for the civilian population, voted aye.

Captain Johnson, the Commander of the Terran forces, voted aye.

Lancer-Captain Pearl, voted aye.

Ignoring the pinched face of the obviously disenfranchised and silent Head Scribe, the Elder acknowledged the vote.

"The Brotherhood will deploy in support of the local communities. Now, onto the matter of Elijah's apprehension?"

"I'll lead a small force to locate him and assess the situation." The courier volunteered, earning a grateful nod from the Elder.

"Summers and Bourgois will accompany you." Griff added.

"I'll detail two of my best men to give you some muscle." Hardin smiled, pleased at how things were forming.

"And you know damn well I'm going." No one was going to interrupt or deny the usually jovial young woman, Veronica looking about the room as if daring anyone to tell her no.

"Where he goes, I go." Cass murmured, nonchalant, indicating Maxson.

The next hour passed in a blur of frenetic activity and raised voices, as the leaders planned out, for all intents and purposes, the Brotherhood's entrance into the war for the Mojave.

A dropship would carry the team to the abandoned BoS bunker at nightfall, giving them each several hours to prepare and rest up. The courier used that time to read everything he could get his hands on regarding the former Elder, his back hunched over a console in the archives and his eyes aching from focusing on the bright green font.

It was decided to reinforce the garrison at Primm, the Terrans adding to the forces already there with a further six marines, a pair of marauders and another medic.

Marco and Iara would be sent to Novac with two firebats, two marauders, six marines and the newly christened medic, Joanna. Carlitos had checked out on a vulture bike and would serve as their scout. An SCV operator would accompany them to use the scrap at both Gibson scrapyard and the Repconn rocket site to build up defenses. Begrudgingly, the Brotherhood was convinced to send sufficient funds with that group to pay Old Lady Gibson for her material. They decided to ask Haversam to accompany them, based on his experience at the site.

Ashur is tasked with scouting the Colorado and providing information directly to both the command center and Chief Hanlon.

The Elder had tasked Paladin Hardin and Knight Lorenzo with increasing patrols throughout the Mojave. Councilor Williams requested that the newer members from her vault be given this assignment to earn some field experience. Captain Johnson provides Vulture bikes for the patrols, giving them unprecedented speed and mobility. They are able to field four patrols of four members, who are to range to sites of interest and maintain constant contact with the Adjutant.

A banshee is kept on station with a squad of paladins and knights for agile combat support, in case any of the groups or patrols requires additional reinforcement.

Finally, in an attempt to not antagonize the few remaining NCR forces remaining, with more than a little grumbling from the Brotherhood, Sergeant Petreko will take a squad and the last of the firebats and marauders to the Mojave outpost and link up with Major Knight, who still maintains a light presence there.

Hours later…

He felt a nervous energy thrumming in his limbs, almost vibrating in tandem with the rotors of the dropship his team was boarding. He felt a sharp slap on his backside and stifled the urge to yelp, frowning at the beaming Rose of Sharon Cassidy as she sauntered past and up the ramp of the aircraft. His frown melted at the way her hips moved, his eyes firmly locked on her swaying backside and a tingling sensation growing in his…

"You all set horn dog?" He was roughly shaken from his fantasy by a smirking young woman looking up at him from a nearby stack of crate, the AGR-14 rifle cradled in her arms.

"You know, we never did get the chance to talk since Bonnie Springs." The courier stated, eager to change the subject.

"No. And now's not the time. But I will say this. I'm doing good."

The courier smiled, contrasting the shining platinum hair and clear skin of the lithe young woman before him and the filthy malnourished waif he had spared what seemed a lifetime ago.

"That's good. Let's roll out, specialist."

She grinned at the use of her rank, and saluted the courier before jogging lightly up the ramp.

He took one final look around before boarding himself, stopping to look out the back of the dropship as it lifted up into the desert night.

* * *

At last.

General Oliver breathed a sigh of relief as he looked out over the road and examined the trucks rolling along it with a critical eye. That the president had ordered the reinforcements brought by truck meant that he had truly listened to the NCR commanders and had wasted no time in getting the men and women here.

Counting the trucks in his head, he nodded in satisfaction that the president was true to his word and more, with over two thousand additional forces and light artillery added to his existing forces. It was about to give him the forces he needed to meet Caesar's Legion in pitched battle. The kind of battle he felt that he had been born to lead, that he craved with an earnest desperation that it sometimes frightened even him.

"A glorious sight, eh Colonel?" Oliver remarked to Cassandra Moore.

"Only one step below seeing the Legion crushed being it sir." She replied, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

The general turned to his most trusted and skilled commander, "Damn straight, Cassandra."

"I'll begin conferring with the incoming officers and get their men positioned sir."

"No."

It took the colonel a moment to register what he has just said, "Sir?"

"I'll have my adjutant see to that."

"I… see." Colonel Moore began to wonder what the hell was going on. She was the commander of the forces deployed to the dam, it was her duty to attend to this… unless he was relieving her?

"Don't worry, Colonel. We'll keep your seat warm for you. No, I have another mission. A chess piece needs to be taken off the board before the Legion attacks. Any distraction at this phase of the campaign could cost us everything."

Cassandra couldn't help but feel disheartened at the perceived demotion, though she relished the opportunity to be in the field again, the thought of personally leading a pacification against one of the irritant tribal factions in the Mojave irked her sense of honor.

"The Brotherhood." Lee couldn't quite disguise the smile as he watched the warring emotions on her face since the start of their conversation. He didn't mean to tease the normally unflappable woman, but he was in such good cheer, that the opportunity was too good to miss.

"Sir?"

"You heard me right, General. You are to form a taskforce of at least brigade strength and wipe out the Brotherhood of Steel. You've read the reports, you know that they have been seen coming out of their hole more and more lately. It seems that the Brotherhood is in resurgence… we can't let that happen. I don't have to tell you what it'd do to us to face the Legion with a Chapter of fanatics clawing at our backs."

Colonel Moore started to speak when suddenly, part of something he had said finally registered in her mind.

"You heard me right." Oliver affirmed, pride shining in his eyes as he passed a small box to the bewildered woman.

Cassandra opened it, speechless and opening the box and staring at the gleaming silver stars set within.

"Congratulations. I wish there was time for a proper celebration of your achievement, but war waits for no one."

With a sharp salute and glistening eyes, "Yes sir. I will make preparations immediately."

Dismissing the newly minted Brigadier General, Oliver turned to lean over the rail and continue looking out over the sinuous dragon of the NCR forces rolling onward to victory. He made a note to send the Rangers on to Chief Hanlon, certain in his belief that despite the old man's rhetoric, the Rangers would be able to keep the rest of the Mojave secured while he forged his own glory.

After all, Hanlon had his moment at the first Battle of Hoover Dam. It was time for his.

* * *

Ashur shook his head at the lack of urgency in the NCR forces that he had swiftly passed on his way to Forlorn Hope. The trundling force had hurried at first, the column of men and women jogging along the roads with more fear than determination in their steps. Once the report of the defeat had reached them, they had slowed with an almost palpable mix of relief and depression when their mission changed from reinforcement to one of recovery.

He shook off the lingering traces of the trooper's mood from his mind, increasing his pace to dislodge the lethargy that threatened him. Outpacing the NCR relief force by at least two hours, Ashur arrived to a panorama of carnage. The few tents that were unburnt were ripped and town as if a wild beast was left to run amok. The main boulevard through the Camp was flanked by a series of wooden beams, each bearing a writhing NCR trooper or camp follower, their moans a low symphony of agony.

They hadn't been crucified for long, he judged, as he dipped a finger into the blood crusting in lines down the beam. Though blackening from coagulation, the sanguine trail was still moist enough to smear his fingertips as he examined them.

Modulating his ocular scanner, he checked the flagging life signs of the victims. One had died already, an older woman, likely a camp follower, who had succumbed to exhaustion and could no longer hold herself up to draw breath. The others were not much better off, though some verve remained to them to keep from asphyxiating on their overtaxed lungs.

Judging the pace the relief force was keeping, Ashur calculated that there was a moderate chance that most of these people would still be alive by the time they finally arrived.

Most people in the Koprulu sector that were aware of Spectre's thought of them in much the same vein as ghosts, though often attributing to them an even darker aspect than the enigmatic agents of the Dominion.

In truth, they were plagued with a number of foibles and idiosyncrasies but instead of taking away from their humanity, it embellished it. The men and women of Project Shadowblade were often described as humanity distilled into raw form and touched with a hint of madness. They felt more than even ghosts did, and shrouded their hearts in the emotions of those around them, touching the basest side of humanity and emerging from that cloying maelstrom of love, hate, lust, greed, joy and sadness with a deep understanding and an almost crippling sympathy.

It was why many held onto dolls or talismans, they poured belief into such idols that it would protect them from the abyss. And to a spectre, belief was power.

It was that raw connection that compelled Ashur to cut down the suffering NCR troopers, triaging the worst cases first and laying them gently on the ground as comfortably as he could. He bound their wounds from the ragged strips of cloth from the ruined tents after soaking them in missed bottle of vodka, the pungent alcohol eliciting moans from the beleaguered.

His mercy done for now, he continued on his mission, noting specifics of the Legion's assault.

They had formed in ranks, like the armies of old and marched on lines to well within service rifle range. But that range mark had no telltale signs of mass casualties that should have resulted from a line of metal clad warriors receiving volleys of rifle fire. Either the NCR was very poorly led or the men here simply didn't have any rifles. Closer in he started to find the sporadic tales of gunfire of a different sort, mostly buckshot and pistol rounds.

There was very little blood here, indicating that the Legion did not suffer much during this phase of the assault. The vanguard must have been heavily armored, like the prow of a battleship, cutting through the firing lines established by the desperate NCR forces.

Though he couldn't tell from the traces left behind, he could surmise that not only did the Legion outnumber their opponents, they enjoyed greater zeal and enthusiasm for the fight. For them, it was less a fight and more of an appetizer to a greater feast of blood in their future.

He left the camp less than an hour later, after having learned all he could of the NCR's defeat. He next repeated his recon at the NCR's listening post, the location which would have warned the Camp of attack had it not also been attacked.

As it was, the outpost had gotten a warning off, just too late for either them or the camp at Forlorn Hope. The men here did not die in battle, they were murdered swiftly and without remorse. The way a ghost or a spectre would kill. The Rangers here were killed to a man, though to their credit, very few were found with their weapons still holstered, indicating that though surprised, the rangers reacted quickly and did manage some resistance before being overwhelmed. From the tracks surrounding the outpost, the rangers were outnumbered 3 to 1.

Ashur made his report as he loped to the south to put eyes on the Legion camp at Nelson. He found no tracks that indicated that the attack had come from there, which he concluded meant that the forces stationed there were meant for another target.

To his dismay, he arrived to find the area freshly abandoned, smoke still rising in wisps from extinguished campfires. Running as quietly as stealth allowed, he skirted the edge of the old town until he caught the rearguard of the departing Legion force, numbering at least 300.

They were heading west, which could only mean…

"Ashur to command. Priority One alert. Novac is about to be attacked."

* * *

"What did they just say?"

Any response was interrupted as the heavy metal grate covering the access shaft to the abandoned bunker slammed shut, the plate vibrating slightly as their drop ship rose into the air to return to base.

"Sounded like Ashur was making a report about his recon to Camp Forlorn Hope." Jacky guessed, from the tiny snippet they caught before the shielded bunker swallowed them up. He shrugged and moved up to join the 2 paladins who had moved further in, their weapons scanning for any targets.

"There isn't much to this place… thought it'd be bigger."

"Over here." Veronica called out to them, from the first room.

Leaving the paladins and Sophia to stand watch, Cass and the courier found Veronica kneeling over a headless corpse, the man wearing a blood spattered light grey jumpsuit with a curious red X spray painted on its back.

"Well, that's no way to get ahead in life." Cass quipped.

Veronica looked up at her and shook her head at the poor joke, "Judging from the remains, I would say his head was blown off, probably with a localized explosion."

"Like a slave collar maybe?" The courier surmised.

"Yeah, that'd do it."

They continued to explore the small bunker, finding clear evidence that Elijah had been there. Veronica studiously examined some equations that had been scrawled on a blackboard while Cass helped herself to some bottles of liquor that had been left. Sophia seemed entranced by some kind of vending machine, and judging by the beeps and clicks issuing from her suit, was taking readings from it.

"This is fascinating!"

The courier looked over at her and was about to ask her what she found so interesting when he saw it, a radio crackling with amber light and sitting alone in the center of the room. He had no idea how he had missed something so obvious but now that he had, he couldn't seem to shake off the spell it had him under.

A woman's voice, sultry like satin, whispered in his mind as he tapped the edge of the radio, the crackling noise dissipating with an audible pop and the voice coming through much more clearly.

' _Has your life taken a turn? Do troubles beset you?'_

"You have no idea sweet heart." Cass interrupted, before shoulder checking the courier from his daze.

"What's gotten into you?"

The courier tried to articulate the sense of dread he felt, like they were being watched from every shadowy corner.

'… _inviting you to begin again.'_

"I have a bad feeling about this."

"Elijah was here. He's too smart to leave a trail like this though. There has to be some purpose to all this." Veronica ventured, as she joined them at the table.

'… _rekindle old flames.'_

Inexplicably, his eyes were drawn to a single metal door, the sealed portal seeming to call to him. Taunting and seducing him at the same time. Summers laid a hand on him, offering a steadying presence both physically and mentally as he felt the darkness at the edge of his vision recede at her power.

'… _escape from your troubles.'_

"Alright team, we're pressing on. Something tells me that beyond that door something is waiting to fuck us up. Keep your heads on a swivel and weapons up."

The paladins acknowledged with curt nods and Veronica smiled at him comfortingly. Jacky, still sealed in her hazard suit, moved away and activated her stealth, preparing to lead the way once the door was open.

Cass unlimbered her arms and racked her shotgun, bracing herself for a fight. Veronica, for the first time since he had met her, shook off the mousy brown robes she always wore to reveal a black skin tight bodysuit and interleaved with scale like armor. It was obviously Terran tech, falling in between the suits that the Brotherhood wore beneath their power armor and the hazard suits worn by the Terran special operators. It had no stealth, but was up-armored to provide more protection. She wore a power fist on both hands, forged in Big MT with saturnite and glowing with stored heat. She nodded her readiness.

Taking a deep breath, Paul Maxson spun the wheel lock and braced himself against the screech of rusted metal as he drank in the yawning darkness beyond.

* * *

 **A/N:** I know some of you have just been dying to get to Sierra Madre! Sorry, you'll have to wait for one more Chapter. I just love me some cliff hangers! I've been toying with the notion of giving people a visual reference for the characters they are reading about. Some readers prefer to use their imagination; if you are one of those, read no further.

Now for two of my favorite characters, Ashur Shalev and Jacqueline Summers. For Ashur, I think of the actor Faran Tahir. For Summers, now that she is actually well nourished and clean, bears a striking resemblance to Chloe Grace Moretz.

If you are interested in knowing more character visualizations, let me know in the reviews or PM. Thanks for reading!


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